There were times when jealousy was an issue, of course. Times when he smiled so nicely at her, or talked for hours to him, or did wild favors for anybody, because that's how he is. And I used to frown, or pout, or show some nipple--whatever it took to get him back in my arms.

....where he quickly grew stale, to my shock and terror. Even his skin started to feel like plastic to my disturbed mind as he rotted slowly in my lap, dying like a man but not living like one, not being everything he could be--gasp--if it weren't for me.

So I had to let him out, had to bite the bullet and watch those smiles, even when the women smiled back so damn obviously; but I kept quiet. I spent hours, days, even a few months without him, knowing all the time that his mind, my favorite room in the world, was being used by other people. It was like having strangers sleep in your bed. But he exploded with life from there, and the smiles I recieved were a hundred times sweeter recycled. The more he asked to go out, the more I let him, and the happier and more eagerly he came home.

My mother asked me one day how I could stand sharing him with anybody and everything that came along like that. I smiled. "I'm not sharing him," I laughed. "I'm showing him off."