"de perto ninguém é normal"
[close up, nobody is normal]
(from the song "Vaca Profana"
by Caetano Veloso)
[Translation by Gato Medio]
"Everybody is somebody else's weirdo."
(from "More Murphy's Law" by Arthur Bloch)
Chapter 1: The Conversation (Part 1)
None of the things I am going to talk about would have happened if Fiona hadn't suddenly decided to become all friendly and reveal her carefully guarded secret to me. Her revelation woke a desire in me which, until that moment, I didn't even know I had.
And the conversation I'm talking about probably wouldn't have taken place if we hadn't been trapped together in the office during that prolonged blackout.
On second thought, Fiona might have found another opportunity to open up and tell me about her unusual private life. And even if she'd never found a chance for that, my repressed desire might still have forced its way to the surface one day, independent of any external stimulus.
Be that as it may. I have decided to blame it on the blackout.
I realize that the sentences above don't make a lot of sense. Not unless you already know what I'm talking about. And chances are that you don't. My utterances may seem confused and confusing. I'm sure that you haven't got a clue what this is all about. You may even wonder about the state of my mental health.
I admit that I'm finding it difficult to get a handle on my contradictory feelings. Let me start again. This time I'll try to put things in the right order.
Until the day of that blackout - and the conversation - Fiona and I hadn't been close friends. We knew each other because we were both attending the 'Computer Sciences' course at the North London Poly. And, being fellow students, we'd often engage in conversations about the subjects of our course and other things happening around us. But I didn't know Fiona well.
The course we're attending puts a particular emphasis on the practical application of the knowledge it aims to teach. It is structured in three parts: two years of lectures at the university, a one year placement in industry, and the final year, back at the university, during which students prepare their final project. Because of this structure, the course is frequently called a 'sandwich course' and during the practice year colleagues often referred to me as a 'sandwich student'. (The term 'intern', which American readers might be familiar with, was never used very much in the UK. It has become even rarer since it became irrevocably linked to the name Monica Lewinsky and the White House.)
The students in my course could easily be slotted into one of three groups. First, there were the 'nerds', students who had fallen in love with their study subject, like a painter might fall in love with his model. They would use the latest technology for the sake of using it, without ever asking whether it was the most appropriate solution to a given problem. At the other extreme were the 'clueless', a bunch of people who were either unable or unwilling to learn anything. The largest group, to which Fiona and I belonged, were ordinary students who got on with their studies without letting them interfere too much with their lives.
During the first two years, I was aware of Fiona's presence. We talked occasionally about topics related to our study subject, but that was about the extent of our contact. Then, when we looked for suitable places for our year of work experience, we both ended up at the same firm: SoftImage plc. The company provides a variety of computer services, specifically geared to the internet. The most prominent part of their activities is the development and hosting of web sites for a number of well-known pop artists and other public figures who feel that they need an internet presence.
This was when Fiona and I got to know each other a little better. We usually chatted over lunch in the staff restaurant. I also made it a habit to stroll over to Fiona's workstation when I had nothing else to do or when I was waiting for inspiration to strike. During these conversations we told each other little snippets about our lives outside work and study. From what I told Fiona at these occasions, she could deduce that I had a steady relationship and an active sex life. When Fiona told me that I was very lucky, there was almost a hint of envy in her voice. But, on the whole, I found Fiona rather withdrawn. The information she gave me about herself was limited to very superficial comments and observations.
Then the lights went out.
Actually, it wasn't the first time this happened. We were already used to our 'daily' power cut. The computer screens went blank, the air conditioning shut down, and there were the usual shouts of "Oh no, not again," and "Shit, I haven't saved for at least two hours," coming from various corners of the open-plan office.
To explain: The building where SoftImage's offices were located was part of a new development. We were occupying the 17th floor of the 'North Tower', the first building to be completed. All around us, more office towers were springing up. The whole area looked like one huge construction site with buildings in varying stages of completeness. Every now and then, a careless contractor would disconnect the electricity supply to the area, not knowing that this would also shut off the supply to the already functioning tower. In these cases, it took only minutes to identify the culprit and inform him of the consequences of his careless act. The lights would come back on, leaving everybody relieved but still complaining about the lost time.
This time was different. An excavator had cut through the main power cable. It would take some time to repair the damage. There was little hope that electricity supply would be restored during our work hours. The managers held a brief meeting and decided to give everybody the rest of the afternoon off. Bill Stickers, the facilities manager, came around to tell us the news.
Most of the employees reacted cheerfully and got ready to leave. There was only one snag: with the lifts not working, they would have to make their way down the stairs - seventeen floors for those who would leave by the main lobby; a little more for people who had their cars parked in the underground parking lot.
Most people didn't see this as a problem. They welcomed the downward climb as a challenge, a break from routine.
I was uncertain about what to do. I had just started to design the home page for a New Age musician. I had come up with a new, exciting concept just before the electricity supply was interrupted. I wanted to try out my idea while it was still fresh in my mind. Failing that, I wanted to make a few notes on paper so that I would be able to pick up on my brain spark first thing in the morning.
All around me, people were noisily getting ready to leave. While I listened to their jokes about other options for getting down - abseiling and parachuting were mentioned - Fiona strolled into my cubicle.
"Hi Liz. Mind if I come in?" She asked. "My area gets quite dark when the lights are off. At least you've got a window."
"Sure. Make yourself comfortable," I answered, pointing at my visitors' chair. "I've got a window, but you can't open the damn thing. Without air conditioning, this place will turn into a sauna in no time."
"Aren't you going to leave?" Fiona asked.
I told her that I really wanted to finish something I had just started, or at least write down what I had intended to do.
"How about you? Why aren't you calling it a day?"
"Well, yes. I guess I'll be going in a short while. I just didn't fancy the idea of making my way down those stairs with only the emergency lights on and everybody else trying to get down as fast as possible. Looks like the people on the other floors are leaving as well. So I decided to give it some time until everybody else has left. But don't let me interrupt what you're doing. I'll just sit here and watch you work."
We exchanged a few more comments about the frequent power outages and that this kind of real life occurrence had never been mentioned in any of the lectures. Then I turned to my desk and started to sketch down my idea.
The temperature was rising slowly but steadily. It got to the point where I felt really uncomfortable. My skin became all sticky and my bra was killing me. It seemed that the heat made my body expand and my bra wasn't designed to cope with this. I decided to go for a walk and to check if I could find a cold drink somewhere. As I passed the ladies, I stepped briefly inside and took off my bra.
As I had expected, the vending machine wasn't working. The water cooler was still dispensing water, but it had turned lukewarm.
"The water cooler's stopped cooling," I reported when I returned to my cubicle.
As I put the bra which I had been carrying in my hand into my handbag, I noticed Fiona's enquiring look.
"I've taken off my bra. It was getting really uncomfortable," I explained.
"What a good idea! I think I'll follow your example."
Fiona got up and looked over the partitioning which divided my cubicle from the others to check if there was anybody around. Then she grabbed hold of her top and pulled it over her head.
I couldn't help staring at her. She wore a magnificent lacy bra, elegant and extremely sexy at the same time. 'If that's what she wears for work, I wonder what she puts on when she's out on a date,' I thought to myself. And what she had inside her bra wasn't to be sneezed at either.
My eyes stayed fixed on Fiona's upper body as she undid the clasp behind her back, let the straps slip off her shoulders and then removed the bra altogether. Her breasts were beautiful! They weren't particularly big, but there was something about them which didn't let me take my eyes off them. They were firm with a slight bounce.
My mind went back to the ladies, where I had taken off my bra, just a few minutes ago. I had taken the chance to look at myself in the mirror. My suntan was gradually fading but the white patches left by my bikini top were still clearly discernible. Those marks, while they lasted, were considered an important fashion accessory. Not only on a woman's upper body, also around her sex and on her bottom. The size and shape of those white patches indicated how daring a woman was, how tiny a bikini she had been wearing.
I myself found those patches ugly. They seemed an unnatural interruption of the tanned skin. Besides, if a man got to see these marks, he didn't need to wonder how daring the woman was - she was revealing all there was to reveal.
But sunbathing topless in London was problematic, to put it mildly. Roger hadn't yet made any pronouncement on the subject. 'He'll probably tell me what he wants me to look like before the next summer arrives,' I had thought.
Fiona's breasts sported a magnificent even tan without any interruption. The slightly upward pointing nipples were surrounded by large areolas. Both were of a dark brown colour, combining beautifully with her tanned skin. Fiona's breasts seemed to be asking to be touched.
I became aware of my staring and tried to look somewhere else, but my attention soon returned to these beautiful breasts. God, they were magnificent! I didn't stand a chance in comparison with Fiona. If the two of us were to stand side by side, ten out of ten men would chose Fiona over me.
Don't get me wrong: I'm not suffering from some kind of inferiority complex about my body. On the contrary. I think I've got my stuff pretty well together. But I'm realistic enough to know when I've been beaten. The realization that I was so clearly outclassed by Fiona wasn't very comforting.
I made a conscious effort to stop gawking at Fiona's upper body. My eyes wandered down, along the tight jeans which emphasised her shapely legs, to her sandal-shod feet. I noticed that the colour of her toenails was the same deep burgundy as her bra. Was this coincidence or did she always put on nail varnish to match the colour of her underwear? I wondered what her knickers might look like. If they combined with her bra - which I was pretty sure they did - they had to be a mere wisp of textile. Then I checked myself. How strange that I should be thinking about another woman's underwear!
Fiona wasn't in any hurry to put her top back on. As I glanced at her, pretending that I was carrying on with my notes, I realized that, although she had never talked to me about her sex life, I had picked up a whole range of superficial observations and comments on the subject.
Without really trying to, I had registered that Fiona had been dating a number of fellow students in the beginning of the first year. She usually went out only once with each boy. I had concluded from this that Fiona was only interested in one-night stands and didn't want a lasting relationship. Neither Fiona nor the fellows she went out with ever commented on these dates or the reason why there wasn't a second encounter.
It so happened that I once went to bed with Clive, a chap who had previously been on a date with Fiona. Afterwards, when he proudly handed me the spliff he had rolled, I asked him, "What's Fiona like?"
"Who?" he asked, as if he hadn't understood.
"Fiona," I answered, blowing clouds of cannabis smoke into the air before I handed the joint back to Clive.
The smoke was irritating my throat. I had to make a conscious effort not to cough. That would have been considered seriously uncool.
"I saw the two of you together the other day."
Clive took a long drag. Then he blew the smoke straight into my face.
"I'm sure you wouldn't want me to talk to the other chicks which pass through this bed about what it was like to shag you."
Clive was obviously not what one might call a gentleman, yet he refused to talk about his fling with Fiona. I was intrigued, but not enough to lose any sleep over it.
About three months into the first year, the dates stopped. I didn't know whether this was because the guys no longer asked Fiona, or because Fiona stopped accepting their invitations. I started to think that, maybe, nothing had ever happened on these dates with Fiona, and that her pretenders had lost interest.
The same thing had happened at SoftImage. As soon as we started working here, several of the permanent employees had asked Fiona and me for dates. I never accepted, for reasons which will become clear in a short while, but Fiona went out with a few of our colleagues, including my boss. The following day Fiona and her partner always behaved as if the date hadn't happened, and there was never any repeat performance.
With a body like this Fiona could afford to be choosy, but I wondered why there hadn't been anybody at all whom she considered worthy of a second chance. The only comment I remembered was when she had once said about our male fellow students that they lacked maturity. She never explained what exactly they had or hadn't done to deserve such a summary judgement, nor did she ever elaborate on what exactly her expectations of an ideal partner were.
I also wondered why it had taken me until now to realize what a good looking woman Fiona was. My explanation was that I wasn't in the habit of checking out other women's sex appeal. I was - and I hasten to add, I still am - one hundred percent hetero. My sex life has never strayed from the straight and narrow path. Never, except ... Well, I'll get to the 'except' a little later.
Eventually, Fiona put her top back on. "I guess we can count ourselves lucky that we're not stuck in the lift between floors," she suggested.
Maybe the heat had gotten to me. Or maybe Fiona's exhibition of her bare breasts and my speculations about her sex life had slanted my thoughts in a certain direction. Whatever the reason, Fiona's innocent remark caused a sequence of images to appear in my mind.
At first, these images were in black and white, of poor quality, flickering like old silent movies. They all showed me inside the barely-lit lift cabin, dressed exactly as I was at the moment, without a bra under my blouse. There were men with me inside the cabin, most of them wearing business suits. Their number varied from scene to scene, but they all showed a great interest in me, the only female. (Being the only female in the lift wasn't an unusual occurrence in this building. Neither was being studied carefully by fellow lift passengers.)
After a while the men stopped looking and started groping. At first they squeezed my breasts through the thin textile of my blouse, then they ripped it apart and feasted their hands and mouths on my bare tits. The scene ended in a full-blown gang bang with me lying on the floor of the lift cabin, all my clothes out of place, and cocks being shoved into my face and pussy.
I noticed to my own amazement that the scenes didn't shock or horrify me. I felt almost as if what happened to me in these film clips was the normal thing to expect in such a situation.
Then, the images turned into a full-colour sound picture. This film showed me and Roger inside the lift. At the start of the scene the lift was well lit and moving down. Then it came to a stop with a bump and a shudder. There was a moment of complete darkness before the emergency lighting came on.
"Hmm, interesting," Roger said. "We've never done it in a lift."
"True," I replied. I knew exactly what was expected of me.
I knelt in front of him and opened his fly. Then I undid his belt and pushed down his trousers and shorts. His cock was still at rest, looking like a shrivelled-up sausage with too much skin. That would soon change. I kissed Roger's member awake. I trailed my tongue along his increasing length. As I sucked his balls into my mouth, I could feel Roger's hands stroking my hair approvingly.
When Roger's cock was fully erect, I started to undress while my lips kept moving up and down the rigid shaft. First I unbuttoned my blouse and removed it. In this scene, I was wearing a bra and I didn't take it off. I managed somehow to slide my skirt and knickers down my legs and to free my ankles from the tangled mess without letting Roger's cock slip from my mouth. Then I lay down on the floor of the lift cabin and waited for Roger to penetrate me.
In the final scene, the rescue team which had managed to prize open the lift doors was treated to the sight of me, wearing nothing except my bra, riding Roger's cock.
This mental picture show had only taken a matter of seconds, but it left me highly aroused. The thought of Roger's cock inside me made me squeeze my thighs together and I could notice that my pussy was leaking. I wondered if Fiona had noticed that her comment about being trapped in the lift had sent me on a trip to fantasy-land.
"It all depends on who with," I replied.
There was a wicked glint in Fiona's eyes. "Oh, I see!" she exclaimed. "Little Liz has a fantasy about being trapped in the lift with her favourite male. Tell me about it. Who is it you fancy for a tête-à-tête between floors?"
My protestations that no such thing had ever crossed my mind were of no avail. She had decided to find me a partner for 'a bit of groping in the dark', as she called it.
I soon realized that this game wasn't so much about teasing me, it was also a chance to hear Fiona's comments on the men she offered me, and I was curious to find out what she thought of our mutual acquaintances. I let her run through an extensive list of candidates, but I rejected them all, trying to be funny but not too cruel in my assessment of their suitability.
Some of the people she came up with were really way out. Why, for example, would she offer me Simon? Whatever made her think that I would want to be trapped in a lift with him? Simon was one of the 'nerds' at the university. He only mixed with other members of his circle.
"Perfect choice," I said. "At least I won't have to worry about him making advances. Instead he'll give me a lecture about the inadequacies of technology. 'Why is it that we can send people to outer space and bring them back safely, but we can't bring them down from the seventeenth floor of an office tower without getting stuck between floors?' And then he'll invent a system which ensures that lifts always move to the nearest floor and open their doors when the power is cut."
"I give up," Fiona said mockingly. "You're too difficult to please. Isn't there anybody you would like to spend some quality time with, in the comfortable surroundings of a stuck lift?"
"Yes, there is," I answered, remembering the scenes which had passed in front of my mind's eye not very long ago. "His name is Roger."
"Who's Roger? Do I know him?" Fiona wanted to know.
I hesitated. For me, Roger was Roger. I didn't need any further attribute to describe him. To say that Roger was my boyfriend seemed to be a far too superficial characterization of our relationship. I wouldn't call him my lover either, because, for me, that word seemed to imply an extramarital affair.
"No, you don't know him. He's my man," I said eventually, knowing that it would have been more accurate to say, "I'm his woman."
I didn't want our conversation to change direction. I was willing to tell Fiona everything about Roger and how he made me feel, but not now. Now I wanted to turn the game around and offer Fiona some companions for a cosy hour of confinement in the lift, and I wanted to hear her reaction.
I started with John Woods, my boss, because I knew that Fiona had been out on a date with him, and she couldn't possibly accuse him of lacking maturity.
"Afraid of his own courage," Fiona commented. "He wouldn't do anything without signed written permission by the lady he set out to conquer."
I realized that this was no longer about selecting a suitable partner for a fling inside a stuck lift. Fiona was telling me indirectly why her date with my boss hadn't been a success. The explanation seemed to be that John Woods had been worried he might be accused of misusing his superior position in the firm to gain sexual favours, and had backed off.
But Fiona had been out with other colleagues here at SoftImage, people who didn't have any power they might be accused of misusing. I fed Fiona the names of a few men I knew she had dated.
"Too considerate, needs a lot of encouragement", "Lacks determination", "Afraid to take the initiative," were Fiona's verdicts on the unsuccessful pretenders. Had they been overwhelmed by Fiona's good looks and lost their bottle at the crucial moment?
But students aren't known to get overawed by anything, not even by Fiona's beauty. They wouldn't go weak at the knees for fear that they might make fools of themselves. I suggested some of the better-looking fellows back at the Polytechnic.
Fiona's comments about her fellow-students were even more scathing.
"He wouldn't know what to do with a woman, even if she stripped naked and sat on his lap," was her verdict on my first candidate.
"That one comes in his trousers at the sight of a bare nipple," was her assessment of the next student. I wondered whether this was just a figure of speech or whether it had actually happened.
"Isn't he the one who's always wearing a 'Just did it' T-shirt?" I asked.
"Yes, that's the one. Makes you wonder what the 'it' on his T-shirt refers to, doesn't it?"
I noticed that Fiona's language was becoming more explicit. Was she losing her inhibitions because of the heat, or did she get turned on by our conversation about what might happen inside a lift between a man and a woman? Maybe I was getting close to solving the mystery of Fiona's unsuccessful dates.
"With him, it's a pity, really. He develops this really impressive hard-on, but then he gets embarrassed about it. Doesn't want me to notice it, goes into all kinds of contortions to hide it, and eventually leaves with some flaky excuse," was Fiona's comment on my next candidate.
Then I thought of Clive, my joint-rolling one-night stand who had refused to talk about what happened between him and Fiona on their date. I wondered whether Fiona would exercise the same restraint.
"What about Clive?"
"He's a typical three-effs man."
I didn't understand.
"What's a three effs man?"
"Oh, that's my invention. You know that stupid saying about the three Rs of education: reading, 'riting and 'rithmethic? Well, I came up with the three Fs of student sex along the same lines: fondle, fuck, and forget."
I still wasn't sure whether the three Fs were Fiona's opinion about Clive's attitude or whether they described Fiona's approach to sex. In either case, it seemed that they had actually slept together. But only once.
I decided to try something a little more off the wall. "How about Alice?" I asked.
Alice was one of the 'clueless'. Her habit of adorning herself and her predominantly black clothes with metal studs and chains had earned her the nickname 'Alice in chains'. She wasn't afraid of being stereotyped. Everything about her appearance said 'heavy metal'. It also said 'butch'.
Fiona smiled. "Interesting idea. You couldn't accuse her of being too subtle or lacking initiative."
I could confirm Fiona's assessment. Alice had approached me several times and had never made any attempt at hiding her intentions.
"But not really my scene," was Fiona's conclusion.
I decided that the time had come for me to throw in the towel and ask Fiona the crucial question.
Fiona went into denial. "No. Sorry, but there isn't anybody I find interesting enough."
Her reaction disappointed me, but I wasn't going to give up that easily.
"C'mon Fiona. There's got to be a man with whom you'd want to share such an important moment of your life."
Fiona hesitated. "Well, yes, there is. But you're probably going to find it weird. You might even be shocked if I tell you."
Why should I be shocked? Did Fiona feel a burning desire for one of the teachers at the Poly? Did she secretly lust for a married man? I felt that I was close to unravelling Fiona's mystery. Nothing could stop me now.
"I'm not shocked that easily," I said. "And I promise that I won't tell anybody."
"But why should I tell you? Just to satisfy your curiosity?"
I could see that Fiona was caught between two impulses. One, to retreat into her shell and terminate our conversation; the other to bare her soul to me, to tell me the reason why she hadn't been able to start a lasting relationship. I felt she needed a good reason why she should confide in me.
"It will do you good to talk about it. And after you've told me your secret fantasy about with whom you want to be stuck in the lift, I'll tell you a secret about Roger and me, just to show that my relationship isn't that conventional either."
Fiona still hesitated.
"Alright then," she finally said. "It's my dad, Uncle Sid."
Now I was seriously disappointed. I felt that Fiona had tricked me.
"Oh no, Fiona! I'm not going to let you get away with that. We're talking about someone you fancy for a bit of hanky-panky in the dark and you come up with two guardians to protect you against possible attacks. That's not fair."
"Who said anything about protection? I'm talking about someone who I want to be locked up with in the dark so he can take advantage of the situation - and of me, of course. It's not two guardians, just one aggressor."
My mind was reeling. Obviously I hadn't fully understood. How could two people be one? But from what Fiona had said, she wanted to have sex with her father, or her uncle. That couldn't be right. There had to be some misunderstanding.
"I heard you say 'my dad, Uncle Sid'. That's two, isn't it?"
"Well, no. Sorry about the confusion. It's only one person, Uncle Sid. But I often refer to him as my dad. There are two reasons for this."
I remained quiet, waiting for Fiona's explanation.
"Both my parents died when I was quite young. There was a terrible accident. I was the only survivor, but I don't remember anything about it. Uncle Sid, my father's younger brother, took it upon himself to look after me. For some time, he didn't mention my father and mother or the accident for fear I might remember and become traumatized by it. I still don't know what exactly happened. And Uncle Sid didn't correct me when I started to call him Daddy.
"Later, Uncle Sid got married and his wife, Aunt Vera, also treated me like she would treat her own child. But, somehow, with her I always knew that she wasn't my real mother. I never call her anything other than Aunt Vera. But Uncle Sid ended up with two names. I call him Uncle Sid in a formal setting, or when we have a disagreement about something. But when I'm in an affectionate mood I call him Dad."
There were loads of questions forming in my head. Did that 'affectionate mood' go as far as wanting to have sex with him, her uncle? Had it already happened? Had he already abused Fiona when she was young and now she had a fixation on her uncle, he having been her first man? And now she fantasized about what might happen if they were stuck in a lift together? I decided to postpone my outrage until I knew all the facts.
"You said there were two reasons why you call him Dad. What's the second reason?"
Fiona didn't seem very pleased about my reminder. It took her some time to answer.
"The second reason is more complicated; it's based on speculation. It's a version of the truth I've come up with combining little bits of information which I collected from conversations with Uncle Sid.
"For one: Uncle Sid was madly in love with my mother. He once said that it was he who had brought her into his parents' house and then my father, his older brother, had stolen her from him. On another occasion he said he had lost my mother twice, once to his brother and the second time to the accident.
"It almost seems that Uncle Sid doesn't grieve as much about the loss of his brother, my father, as he does about the death of my mother, who was only his sister-in-law. He tells me frequently that my presence is both a joy and a torture to him. A joy, because I look exactly like my mother, only more beautiful if that were possible. A torture, because I'm a constant reminder of his loss.
"Now figure this: Uncle Sid says it took my father only days from setting eyes on my mum for the first time to asking her to marry him. He also says there were only a few months between my father proposing and the two getting married. Apparently my father had already finished his studies and was well on his way to a promising career, while Uncle Sid was still studying and could only offer my mum an uncertain future.
"And here comes the crunch: I was born roughly four months after my mum and dad got married, which means that I was conceived well before the wedding. That by itself is nothing unusual; it happens in the best of families. But in my case it also means that it quite possibly happened before my mum and dad met for the first time. That leads me to the conclusion that Uncle Sid is my real father."
I was stunned. I hadn't expected a story of tragic death, frustrated love and concealed illegitimate childbirth. I felt that Fiona expected me to say something, but I didn't know what to say. Eventually, the pragmatic in me took over.
"Have you considered doing a DNA test?"
Fiona smiled at me, a little condescendingly.
"You're watching too many soap operas, Liz. Or maybe you're reading too many detective stories. How could I get my uncle to agree to such a test, if he isn't willing to tell me the truth? He's clearly determined to preserve my mother's reputation as an honourable woman beyond her death. He would never confirm that she was already pregnant with his child when she married my father.
"And even if I did manage to have the test done without his knowledge, and the result turned out the way I expect, what good would it do me? No. I prefer to keep things the way they are: being almost certain but not knowing for sure."
Quite clearly, there wasn't an easy way out of Fiona's dilemma. But not knowing whether her uncle was really her father wasn't the biggest of her problems. How did this desire to have him as her companion while stuck in the lift fit into this picture?
"And on top of that you feel sexually attracted to your uncle?"
"Sexually attracted? That's got to be the understatement of the year. I've got the hots for him. I've got this super-ginormous crush on him. I melt when he looks at me. I feel like ripping off my clothes and throwing myself at his feet so he can do with me what he wants.
"I've tried everything I could to seduce him, to provoke him, but he's resisted all my flirtations so far. But I'm not going to give up so easily. I know that my conduct is not without effect on him. I can see it from the huge bulge in his trousers."
"You wouldn't!" I exclaimed. "You can't be serious about this. You can't possibly want to have sex with a man who is your uncle, possibly your father."
I was horrified by the idea and it probably came through in the tone of my voice.
"You see! I told you you'd be shocked. But I'm beyond such narrow-minded moral judgements. I know that I want him. I want him so much, it hurts. He's the only man who's ever made me quiver with desire. I know that, sooner or later, I'll be his. And I'll make him forget the loss of my mother."
Fiona's declaration left me open-mouthed. There was a distinct sense of unreality about this situation. I had difficulties getting my head around what Fiona just told me. My view of the world did not have room for a young woman actively trying to seduce her uncle who might be her dad. I couldn't accept the idea of a daughter wanting to have sex with her own father.
On the other hand, he had to be really something. Fiona's infatuation for her 'Uncle Sid' was obviously the true reason why none of her admirers ever got the opportunity of a second date. Compared to the passion of Fiona's life, they didn't stand a chance. Was he really that impressive?
"Anyway, now you know. Whether you like it or not is your problem."
Fiona seemed to be upset about my reaction. Had she really expected me to react differently?
"I hope you'll still hold up your end of the deal and tell me something naughty about Roger and you."