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Its very late, he says. She probably wants to get to bed.She is dazed, just a little, he can tell, and for a moment she looks around, as if unsure where to go. She shakes her head and as her breasts swing slightly back and forth, he hopes she doesn't see that he's now almost completely hard.He reminds her to try that side-lying position. To help her sciatic nerve.She smiles. Loving him in that moment for being her friend. She touches his face, feeling the stubble beginning to take over in the early morning hours. He pats her hand. She says she will try that position. Does he need anything else?He needs her ass in his hands as she ride him in reverse, pulling her down again and again onto his throbbing, hard cock. At least, that's what he thinks. What he says is that he just needs a few hours sleep to clear his head, then he'll head home in the daylight. All he really needs is for her to get some sleep.She smiles. Relieved. And so happy to have someone in this big dark empty house with. When they were both out on the water, which was often, and when they were in reasonable proximity to one another, it was like watching Athenians and Persians at the Battle of Salamis. Splinters and shouted insults between boats, shaking fists and trembling lips, and then — me. The little kid huddled just out of sight — taking it all in. I was, it turned out, the last witness to their continuing war, to the unending, everlasting fratricide that defined our family’s life. In the end, Dad stopped racing his own boat because he couldn’t get insurance anymore, and that was the end — for a time — of my life on the water. I’m certain this was all a prudent choice on the insurers’ part, as apparently sailing was just another venue for their little war, for them to tear each other to shreds, yet their tactical inexactitudes were not what the underwriters had in mind, still, while I was impressed at the time, you shouldn’t be. Destroying sailboats in random displays of filial hatred is a game.
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