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The Choices We Make (Parts 1 - 4)


londonboy
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Sometimes, it pays to be an only child.  It was Christmas morning and I was twelve years old.  I crept down to the living room before my parents were even remotely ready to wake up.  I knew the deal about Santa and my parents knew I was fully informed, but we all were hanging onto the image of a jolly old St. Nick bringing me presents.  None of us wanted my childhood to end.  There, spread out on the carpet in the living room, were all my gifts from the man in the red suit.  Right away, I could see that I had gotten everything I asked for.  I saw the electric keyboard, the set of weights, and the stethoscope next to a few books on medicine and the body.  Never in my wildest dreams did I think my next action could lay the foundation for what was to come for the rest of my life – but we seldom know that, do we?  

*******

Les

Les dropped the dumbbell on the padded flooring with a light thud.  He then looked in the mirror in front of him  Damn, he looked huge, today.  Les glanced around the gym – to make sure he was the biggest guy around.  He smiled at his own reflected face when he confirmed that he was.  He remembered some words uttered in total amazement by his trick from last night.  The guy’s mouth had dropped open as Les flexed and all the dude could say was ‘watermelon biceps.’  Les had liked that description.  For the life of him, Les couldn’t remember the guy’s name . . . and he had only left his hotel room less than two hours ago.  Mark?  Marcus?  Aurelius?  It could have even been Fred for all Les knew.  The guy had merely been a means to an end.  A very enjoyable, explosive end, at that.  Les had been pleased with the generous pickings at the club, last night.  He hadn’t even taken his phone out once to see if Grindr was offering better options.  His conquest had been handsome and muscular – not nearly as big as Les – but big enough to make the evening pleasurable.  And then to find out the dude had never bottomed, well that was like having a cherry on top . . . pun intended.  It was clear Mr. Hot-for-a-Night had intended on being the dominant alpha last night, but that thought had come to a crashing end as soon as Les had removed his sweatshirt . . . which is also when the nickname ‘watermelon biceps’ had been born, as well.  Les had loved watching the cockiness seep out of the guy like a helium balloon with a hole in it as he took in the huge hard body that had been somewhat disguised by the sweatshirt.  What’s his name definitely knew he had hit the jackpot when Les had chosen him – he just hadn’t realized it was more like winning a nation-wide super lottery.  Les could also still feel the incredible pleasure he had received while widening the man’s tight, untapped hole.  The dude was going to find sitting to be a little painful, today – that was guaranteed.  Damn, now Les was hard-as-hell, again – just from thinking of that virgin ass.  This was good, though – since being excited would make him push his workout even harder than usual.  As he picked up the dumbbell from the floor, a memory of lifting a much smaller one on Christmas morning at age twelve flashed through his mind.  Man, had he grown since then.

**********
 

Lester

The fasten seatbelt sign illuminated, but Lester didn’t hear the accompanying announcement because he had on his state-of-the art, noise-cancelling headphones and was listening to the chanting Tibetan monks he had recorded in a cavernous mountain monastery over the last two weeks.  The overly attentive flight attendant, with the bubble butt you could have rested a tray on, placed a hand softly on his shoulder and asked if Lester wanted anything else before the plane started to descend.  The way the handsome guy emphasized the word ‘anything’ made Lester quite sure he could have easily entered the so called ‘mile high club’ if he had wanted to.  Thoughts of Alessandro waiting in their upper east side condo made it quite easy for Lester to ignore the obvious advances from the attendant.  Lester briefly wondered if the guy recognized him or if he was one of those guys that found Lester’s bad boy musician looks particularly appealing.  Again, the anticipated reunion with Alessandro – his boyfriend of two and a half years – forced all other potential desires out of Lester’s mind.  He stored his headphones back in his bag overhead and glanced around, finding most of first-class empty.  It had been an easy flight and a successful trip – but he was happy to know he’d be able to sleep in his own bed that night in the arms of his hot, Italian, model boyfriend.  Well, his soon to be hot, Italian, model fiancé.  Lester instinctively checked his pocket to make sure the slight bulge from the black diamond ring in a velvet covered box was still there.  He knew the cost of the ring was outrageous, but he also knew it would make Sandro gasp when he proposed.  That would make it worth it.  The quick secret trip to Bangkok from Tibet to have it designed and made had also been a little much, but Lester had enjoyed every minute of it because he knew how happy it would make his boyfriend.  Thoughts returned to the chanting monks and the fact that Lester was overjoyed by the music he had already made for his latest gig.  Scoring the soundtrack to what would surely be a gigantic Steven Spielberg masterpiece was so different from the numerous Disney animations and Marvel superhero movies he’d done over the last ten years.  It was all good – especially because all of them paid so well – but doing something that might be seen by someone like . . . let’s say Stephen Fry instead of only children, teens, and Comic Con fans would be a welcome change.  It might even lead to the so far elusive Oscar he had never won, even though he had been nominated four times.  He still couldn’t believe a slightly tipsy evening of uploading songs he’d written for potential Disney-like films and played on the keyboard he had received for Christmas at twelve years old had gone so unbelievably viral that executives from the actual company had called this twenty-one, freshly graduated composer in for a job.  The rest, as they say, was a bliss-filled memory.  And that happiness had been capped off when he had met Alessandro at a friend's birthday party in Milan twenty-eight months before.  Sudden thoughts of Sandro’s perfectly chiseled abs made Lester’s balls tighten, which brought a smile to his face.  All of the work for this new movie had put a little stress on their relationship, but soon that would all be behind them.  Lester knew marriage was the answer.  He closed his eyes and concentrated on Sandro’s cobblestoned stomach.  

**********
 

Tag

Lester ‘Tag’ Taggert had been asleep for only three minutes when the door to his office was opened and the light turned on.  An apologetic nurse – with huge arms that threatened to tear the seams of his scrubs sleeves – told him the senator’s vitals were not looking good.  Dr. Tag, as he was known throughout the hospital and beyond, quickly rose and followed Nurse Broad Shoulders to the extremely private room of one of the nation’s most senior . . . and respected . . . senators.  Tag had expected this interruption or, more accurately, he had known it was a possibility.  Slowing the drip and increasing oxygen immediately solved the problem.  Hunky nurse stood nearby - amazed at how calmly and expertly the problem had been resolved.  Dr. Tag thanked him for waking him – something most doctors would never do – and then explained a few things he wanted the nurse to do for the remainder of his shift to make sure all things went well for the senator.  Tag was very impressed with the insightful questions asked by the nurse who could probably bench him a hundred times with no problem.  Tag knew he was tired – that’s when he allowed his desires to take hold of him.  He explained that he wanted to be awakened every two hours so he could check on his important patient.  As the nurse replied that he would, Tag wanted to suggest he do it by laying on top of him and kissing his neck, but the required online harassment training that all hospital employees had been asked to take would have viewed that as risky behavior.  At least, Tag was pretty sure it would.  As he lay back down on the sofa in his office he let his mind wander back to the veiny biceps bursting out of the nurse’s sleeves.  He allowed a quick right nipple pinch and then immediately forced his mind to focus on follow-up treatment for the senator tomorrow.  The senator’s operation had been a huge secret and only about five employees of the hospital knew he was even there.  No one was to ever discuss the operation, but the fact that Tag was one of the best heart specialists in the country left little to the imagination.  Thoughts returning to biceps bigger than softballs made it clear that Tag was not going to sleep anytime soon – even though the operation had worn him out.  He turned on a nearby lamp and looked over at the bookcase against the opposite wall.  

His eyes landed on the first anatomy book he ever owned – a gift from Santa when he was twelve – and he smiled.  That thing had been like a trusted friend for many years – through college, medical school, all of his years of interning, and so much more.  He also knew it had a note written by the love of his life – Ethan – on page forty-seven.  That page had been chosen specifically because Ethan had said that by the time both of them turned forty-seven a list of things he wrote down would have come true.  The list was written in the open space on the side of the page and at the bottom.  It was the day the two interns had found out that they had been born on the same day, the same year, and within forty-five minutes of each other (if you ignored that one had been on the east coast and one had been on the west coast).  It had also been the first time they had slept together – two cots pushed together in the closet-like room where interns could rest while on duty for their six-month emergency room rotation.  The list included things like the fact that they would be married (not even a possibility at the time), they would have two kids, two dogs, a turtle, and live in a ‘please fix me up’ brownstone in New York.  It also said, ‘Ethan will love Tag forever.’  Who knew that a drugged up schizophrenic mugger would randomly make forever suddenly end two years later by taking Ethan’s life in an alley they both took as a shortcut to the hospital?  To this day, Tag had never walked down that street, again.  Tag mouthed the words ‘Good night, Ethan’ and then closed his eyes – hoping sleep would finally come.
 

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27 minutes ago, portamivia said:

On a yacht, in Milan? 🤪 Maybe Capri? Amalfi?

Apart from that, hottt as usual, Sir. 💦 

Thank you.  I'll change it.  You are too kind.  

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  • londonboy changed the title to The Choices We Make (Parts 1 and 2)

(Part 2)

Les

Les strolled into the gym’s communal shower area like he was a huge rooster strutting his buff, feathery body around the hen house.  Heads always turned when he entered a room . . . and the shower area was no different.  Even though most men did not want to be perceived as the kind of guy that compared himself to others or, heaven forbid, checked out other men – Les could make even the most macho of fellas stare in awe and with a sudden deep feelings of inadequacy when he walked in without a towel and Big Ben was flopping around between his legs.  His cock had acquired that nickname from another one-night-stand – a businessman from London – who had yelled it out like an expletive when Les had dropped his pants for their night of lovemaking.  Said businessman continued to shout more expletives while he took all of Big Ben in the ass numerous times that night.  Oh goody, thought Les as he waddled in, it’s crowded.  Six pairs of eyes slowly scanned Les without an ounce of shyness or shame as he sauntered up to a free nozzle.  On his right side, Les noticed there was a muscled version of Denzel Washington soaping himself up slowly and on the left was a semi-famous powerlifter Les recognized.  

“It’s a beautiful day to be lifting, isn’t it, fellas?” Les said loudly as a greeting and then he acknowledged the powerlifter, “Looking good, there, big man.”

Les was much bigger than the dude, but he knew the compliment would excite the guy.  Les got the water to just the right temperature and then he slid slowly under the spray – knowing how the running water would look as it cascaded down his bulging body and then poured off of Big Ben like a pornographic fountain.  He brazenly caressed the water into his huge chest and then ran his hands down his perfectly etched abs.  He even tugged on Big Ben a couple of times, smiling with his eyes closed, because he knew everyone was watching.  He then got a big palm full of shower gel and started soaping up his enormous body.  Les loved how he could make showering into muscle worshipping porn.  He flexed his body as he lathered it up with the soap.  Making sure to crunch his abs a few times, flex his guns as he massaged soap into the peaks, and inflate his huge chest as often as he could.  Today, the chorus of gasps and muffled moans were heaven to Les’ ears.  He even faced the wall and bent over – allowing the other guys to see a place they’d never get the chance to visit, for Les was saving himself.  He still wasn’t sure for who, but he knew he wasn’t bottoming for just any Tom, Dick, or Harry.  Or even Tom’s Hairy Dick, for that matter.  This internal private joke made him chuckle.  He stood back up and decided to share some love, today.

“Well, my little shower mates, who wants to help this big man clean his massive back?” Les boomed within the echoing tiled shower room.

There was a quick cacophony of voices as each man tried to get Les’ attention, but it was speedy Denzel who swung into action and had a handful of gel sliding down the big man’s back before anyone else thought about moving.  Les was impressed with the man’s speed, as well as his forwardness to just start groping.  There were some moans of disappointment from the other admirers, but no one left.  Les figured that everyone could live vicariously through Denzel.  The man had some talented hands, so Les tensed his muscles to give his shower buddy a thrill.  Big Ben started to get a little aroused – that’s how nice Denzel’s touch was.  

“Do you mind if I ask you a question, sir?” came the deep, but soft voice behind him.

Les smiled.  This guy was probably ten years older than he was . . . but Les’ size usually made everyone say ‘sir’ when talking to him.  It was clear that big muscles automatically called for a certain level of respect.  It had been that way for most of Les’ life since his late teens.  

“It’s eleven inches, friend . . . and that’s before it wants to play,” Les answered, anticipating the question and there were a few gasps in the room.

“Um . . . that’s not what I was going to ask,” Denzel said.   

“Oops, my bad.  Sorry about that, fella.  Shoot away,” Les said, flexing his guns so the guy could soap them up, too.  

“When did you start lifting,” the worshipper asked.  “It’s just that you’re so big and I was wondering if I could ever get that big.”

“I lifted my first weight on Christmas Day when I was twelve years old.  That was sixteen years ago, bud.  Not a day has passed since then that I didn’t do something to make myself get bigger.  It takes freakish dedication to get this freaky big.  That’s what I’ve always said.”

**********

 

Lester

Lester checked his phone as soon as he was in the back seat of the car the studio had said would be there to take him home.  There was no message from Sandro and that was a good sign, since they normally would talk in a few more hours – navigating the time difference between them.  His boyfriend had no clue he was coming home early.  Lester would stop for some flowers and a bottle of Sandro’s favorite Barolo wine – helping to guarantee their reunion would be memorable.  Amazingly, traffic was light and there was no line at the wine shop or the flower shop – so Lester made it home in record time.  He glanced up at the still lovely brownstone he had bought after he scored his first Marvel film, which ended up being the highest grossing film of that year.  Lester and Alessandro had turned this place into a home – even doing some of the lighter work themselves.  That had been the best year of their relationship, so far.  Planning and implementing the vision they created had energized both of them.  Lester was in such a good mood he tipped the driver – a guy that already got paid nicely from the studio.  

As soon as Lester let himself into the front door, the smell of Sandro’s incredible pasta sauce enveloped him.  For a split second, he panicked that his boyfriend had found out he was coming home early, since he only made this pasta on special occasions.  Lester figured that Sandro was making it early, which he often did, to serve the next night to greet him on his return.  That thought, however, did not explain why the dining room table was set for two, candles were lit, and there was an open bottle of wine on the sideboard.  It also did not explain the bright red high heels and matching Mac Jacobs handbag on the kitchen island . . . or the underwear and bra on the stairwell to the second floor.  It’s amazing how the brain works – Lester immediately laughed to himself and said that Sandro had clearly invited their best friend Shawnee over for dinner.  Shawnee did not hide her deep-seeded lust for Sandro from anyone and Lester assumed she had done her best, yet again, to try and seduce Alessandro and was presently taking a shower in the bathroom off the master bedroom, which took up most of the second floor.  Sandro was probably upstairs in his office looking at proofs from some photo shoot he had done recently – picking out the ones he thought were best.

That did not, however, explain the male and female moans coming from the ‘rain forest’ shower with four generous sprays just off the huge bedroom.  Lester noticed that clothes were dropped along the way – from the kitchen – as if Hansel and Gretel had not been siblings, but were lovers, and they had chosen to disrobe to mark the way back home.  As Lester walked toward the bathroom an unexplained calmness came over him.  Maybe, it was because of his time at the Tibetan monastery or maybe he was just accepting something he had known all along . . . deep down . . . but didn’t want to accept.  Either way, he simply walked into the large open bathroom without any hesitation.  

Lester wasn’t sure what he had expected to find, but seeing Frieda Marlin, his agent of five years, totally nude and pressed up against the thick glass wall of the giant shower – as Sandro plowed her masterfully from behind  - had not been at the top of the list.  Frieda and Lester caught eyes just at the point when Sandro let out a familiar victory moan and emptied himself into the woman.  There was too much unstoppable motion for Frieda to have done anything.  She simply had to stare into Lester’s eyes as Sandro came like a pro.  Lester crossed his arms, smiled, and continued to stand there, watching.

“Fanculo, you are the best, Frieda!” Sandro said, between deep breaths.  “So much better than my Lester.”

There it was – in those six words – an explanation for ‘I’ve got a headache’ and ‘I’m working late on a shoot, tonight,’ and ‘Would you mind if we just cuddled.’  Lester’s gaze was still locked on Frieda, who clearly couldn’t decide if she should give into the pleasure she was feeling or the incredible shame she should be feeling.  It was suddenly clear to Lester there would be no shouting . . . who knows what made him come to that decision.  It was also clear that his professional relationship with Frieda and his emotional relationship with Sandro were both over . . . completely.  There was an odd freedom in acknowledging that . . . but there was also a burning in his pocket, which held the now stupid engagement ring.  The thought of that beautiful band fueled Lester, completely, for the next few minutes.

“I’m sorry I don’t please you, Sandro,” Lester said with a loud, but shaky, voice.  “Clearly, I have the wrong anatomy to make you happy.”

Huge Italian hands were immediately removed from Frieda’s more-than-ample breasts.  The chiseled, Roman, gorgeous face finally looked up and showed the kind of shock that Lester had secretly hoped for.  The large Italian sausage, Lester’s nickname for it, surely shriveled up, instantly, as Sandro processed what was happening.  The gorgeous model pulled his body away from Frieda’s and stood there – motionless and silent.  Lester walked over and grabbed one of the extremely expensive giant towels Sandro had insisted on buying and reached around the free-standing thick glass of the party-sized shower to hand it to Frieda.  She immediately covered herself.  

“He prefers very strong coffee in the morning, Frieda, if you don’t already know.  He’s actually not into espresso because he likes to have more than two or three cups.  As stated in my contract, I would appreciate you sending my entire file over by currier, tomorrow.  Yeah, I can see by the look on your face you didn’t think I’d remember adding that clause to my contract.  I understand.  As of right now . . . eight-thirty-seven-pm – you are no longer my agent.  I’m sure you understand.  If you choose to argue about that fact, please know that I will have absolutely no problem sharing all of the intimate details of this exact moment with your boss and your boss’ bosses.  I hope I make myself perfectly clear.  Also, Sandro will be leaving with you this evening.  He’s your problem, now.  Of course, he can pack what he needs for the week, but he should realize that I will have all the locks changed, immediately, and he will have to connect with me later for the rest of his stuff.  As for the engagement ring in my pocket . . . yes, Sandro, I was intending on doing it tonight . . . I will keep it forever to remind me of the guilty, shocked, ecstatic, pathetic faces that greeted me.  And now, I am going downstairs to open the bottle of Barolo wine I bought on my way home . . . and I intend to get sloppy drunk.  I expect both of you to be out of this house before the first glass is finished.  And as both of you know, I love to guzzle my wine, so that leaves you little time . . . in case you were hoping for sloppy seconds.”   

******************************

 

Tag

Tag dreamed of a bloody Ethan – lying in the alley slowly dying . . . alone, scared, and helpless.  It was the dream . . . no nightmare . . . that haunted almost every evening.  Tag knew an Ambien would make him not remember the dreams, but he also knew that sleeping pills would also make him groggy and not clear-headed when awakened through the night.  The doctor always chose to sleep unmedicated . . . a good decision, but one that made his dreams and nightmares very vivid.  And they were always about Ethan.  Huge, dreamy nurse had awakened Tag every two hours, as instructed, and had been so incredibly professional that Tag had completely forgotten how freaking beautiful the muscled behemoth was and only saw him as a competent . . . no, more than competent . . . a truly professional nurse.  After getting his oatmeal, turkey bacon, and apple breakfast at the cafeteria, he surveyed the seating area for a chair and saw that Nurse Broad Shoulders was sitting at a table, alone.  Tag decided to be a good doctor that day and not the doctor he had been trained to be.  He set his tray on the table across from the nurse and smiled at him as he sat down.  

“Um . . . am I in trouble?” the nurse asked.

“No, quite the opposite,” Tag replied, suddenly realizing his power in the moment.  “I’m here to tell you that you were outstanding last night and I just wanted to say thank you for assisting me with the Senator.”

“What senator?” Nurse Dreamy asked, smiling.

“Exactly . . . Nurse . . . um,” Tag said, impressed the guy had not acknowledged their important patient, but embarrassed he didn’t know the guy’s name.

“You don’t know my name.  You say I did an awesome job, but you don’t know my name,” the nurse said, laughing.

“I do not,” Tag said honestly.  “So, I’m hoping you will tell me.”  

“You can’t be a real doctor,” the nurse said, ignoring Tag’s request.

“Why not?” Tag asked.

“You’re too honest, for one thing . . . and, secondly, you’re eating breakfast with a nurse,” he responded.  “No doctor does that.”

“Well, Nurse Big Biceps, for I’m going to call you that until you tell me you’re real name, I’m going to eat wherever I damn well please,” Tag responded – feeling a little turned on and agitated at the same time.  

“I have a nametag on,” responded the handsome man in front of Tag – reducing him to the idiot he was.  

“Michael.  Of course you do.  And any sane person . . . any aware, perceptive, present person would have noticed that.  Please forgive me.  My name is Tag.  My real name is Lester, but I’ve been known as Tag for a long time,” the embarrassed doctor responded.

“I know who you are Dr. Tag.  Everyone knows who you are.  You’re the best . . . and nicest doctor . . . at the hospital.  We all know that,” replied the nurse.

“And you are the most competent nurse I’ve ever worked with, Michael,” Tag said, smiling at the big man.

“We make a good team,” Michael responded . . . and immediately Tag’s face darkened.

“I . . . um . . . yeah . . . we do,” Tag tried to answer, positively, but all he could do was think about how Ethan used to say that about the two of them – how they were a great team.  “I’m sorry . . . I’ve got to go.”

“Dr. Tag, did I say something wrong?” Michael asked.

“No . . . it’s just . . . um, I remembered something I’ve got to do,” Tag said, as Ethan’s voice and laughter landed in his brain – bringing him down, immediately.  “See you later, Michael.”
 

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4 minutes ago, arpeejay said:

I always love "what if?" stories. The Multiverse is vast, after all.

What if I had started having sex with guys at age 22 (1980) instead of 35 (1993)? What if I had come out to Janet instead of marrying her in 1982? What if Y had told Jeremy (1999) that I wasn't leaving Atlanta until the kids graduated from high school? What if I had been offered that job (2003) Syracuse instead of the one at Wayne State? What if the Hubby had taken that job in Iowa City (2005) instead of the one in Buffalo? What if I had dedicated myself to bodybuilding instead of letting myself be distracted by education, career, relationships, parenthood, coming out, widowhood, etc.? 

The possibilities are endless.

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5 hours ago, arpeejay said:

What if I had started having sex with guys at age 22 (1980) instead of 35 (1993)? What if I had come out to Janet instead of marrying her in 1982? What if Y had told Jeremy (1999) that I wasn't leaving Atlanta until the kids graduated from high school? What if I had been offered that job (2003) Syracuse instead of the one at Wayne State? What if the Hubby had taken that job in Iowa City (2005) instead of the one in Buffalo? What if I had dedicated myself to bodybuilding instead of letting myself be distracted by education, career, relationships, parenthood, coming out, widowhood, etc.? 

The possibilities are endless.

The opportunities are endless, as well.  I'm trying to create a story where we'll get invested in all three versions of Lester Taggert.  So invested, that we're not sure which one we want to be who he finally ended up being.  That Christmas morning did he pick up the keyboard, the weights, or the medical stuff first.  And what if all three versions meet the same guy - how does that impact who they become, too?  Let's hope I can make it worthwhile.  

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3 hours ago, londonboy said:

The opportunities are endless, as well.  I'm trying to create a story where we'll get invested in all three versions of Lester Taggert.  So invested, that we're not sure which one we want to be who he finally ended up being.  That Christmas morning did he pick up the keyboard, the weights, or the medical stuff first.  And what if all three versions meet the same guy - how does that impact who they become, too?  Let's hope I can make it worthwhile.  

We probably all have 'what if' stories.  Big one for me was in 1987 when I met my to-be husband. So many forces were in play for me to be elsewhere with so many stronger chances that I would have been and would never have met him. 

LondonBoy, your writing continues to be wonderful, making the story so very interesting and smoothly presented.  Divergent paths taken resulting in such different lives makes this story so compelling. And begs for a continuation with the twists and turns I am sure will happen to each Lester.

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4 hours ago, londonboy said:

The opportunities are endless, as well.  I'm trying to create a story where we'll get invested in all three versions of Lester Taggert.  So invested, that we're not sure which one we want to be who he finally ended up being.  That Christmas morning did he pick up the keyboard, the weights, or the medical stuff first.  And what if all three versions meet the same guy - how does that impact who they become, too?  Let's hope I can make it worthwhile.  

Another deep thinking story from Londonboy. Looking forward to more.

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  • londonboy changed the title to The Choices We Make (Parts 1 - 4)

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