Uncle of the Bride

“I am a Jameston,” I yelled out in frustration. This teasing was getting tiresome, and I was running out of snappy rejoinders. I wanted to be fucked to satisfaction. I was sorry I had ever introduced Luke to my niece, Claire. If I hadn’t thought that cocking me was enough for him to have no interest in that little maneater, I never would have let them meet.

“You have Philip Williams,” he said, once more in a whisper, a pointed whisper, tossed out with some venom.

There it was then, at last. I had Philip. I wouldn’t let Luke fuck me in the house, but I had Philip sleeping in my bed.

“You’ve never liked Philip,” I said.

“No, no I haven’t. He has shifty eyes.”

“He’s a Williams. That’s a family trait. The Williamses are proud of it—and have every right to be. They were here when the Jamestons arrived on these shores.”

“Only by about a month . . . and that in the early eighteenth century. Isn’t it time to put First Families of Virginia snobbery to bed?”