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From: Mercutio <mercutio1@crosswinds.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} Only Chance (MF rom, maybe kinda)
Date: Sun,  8 Jul 2001 05:10:01 -0400
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Disclaimer:
This story is based on several small kernels of real-life but in general can be
described as fiction. If you're not old enough to view adult materials, or adult
materials are somehow illegal in your area, find something else to do besides
read this.

This story is copyright 2001 by mercutio1@crosswinds.net. I request that all
persons wishing to archive this story on-line e-mail me at the above address or
at mercutio1@email.com for consent. I further request that, in the event that
this story is somehow used for commerce (on a pay web site, or a CD full of
stories) that I be compensated in some manner..

Finally, I would ask that changes to the text formatting of this story not be
made without permission and that this disclaimer remain intact before the
beginning of any copy of this story.

--Mercutio



Only Chance
--

     To say that I'm horny is an understatement. What I'm doing
in a bar, though, that's beyond me. I don't even drink. I hate
smoke. The air is stale and too hot. The music is loud. Something
I don't care for. Seventies rock.

     I have a woman at home. A beautiful woman. She loves me. I love
her. But what we have isn't - can't - be everything. So she asked
me to go here. There were many hard words, of course. I didn't
want to come. I don't want to be unfaithful. But she knows that
she can't give me everything. She calls what we do in bed "sex",
of course, but I can't. It just isn't the final frontier.

     I could have paid for it, of course, but I can't bring myself
to trade my money for a piece of a woman's soul. So here I am. A
smoke-filled room with a hundred and fifty well-dressed people. Me
and Steely Dan. I've never felt so alone. I've never had to use
a pick-up line. Never even asked a woman out. It's always been
me and Andi. My whole life. Three quarters of it, anyway.

     All the shyness of a bashful teenager hits me as I walk up to
the bar. A solid piece of oak, stained dark. It's easier to
watch someone's amber drink than to look up at the people around
me. This will be harder than I thought.

     I ask for a rum and coke, hoping that it'll taste more like
coke than rum. The bartender asks me what kind of rum, and I
just nod. Whatever.

     I don't have any reason to be self-conscious. I'm fit. Normal
height. Well dressed and well off. I'm polite, well spoken and
cultured. Maybe not handsome, but I've got looks on more guys than have
looks on me. And I don't THINK I look desperate.

     I get more rum than coke. It burns my tongue and I have to cough.

     I sit at the bar for over an hour, trying to look normal and
available. The ring in my pocket is poking my leg. I'm looking
at the men, trying to see what they do, what works.

     Nothing works. It's just like high school. There are little
groups of men huddling in bunches, staring at the collections of
women. Some of them point. Every few minutes, one of them walks
up to a table full of women to speak to one of them. The women
nonchalantly ignore them, or, more rarely, give them a second
look, a look like the 4H judge at a state fair. The women,
as a rule, don't seem to smile at the men.

     It's almost midnight before I realize that if I had any confidence
at all, I would've at least gotten off my stool and gotten shot
down with the other men.

     "What..." I say to no one in particular, "does it take to get
laid?"

     "Well, about fifty bucks and a trip to the south side, if you're
serious, sir." The voice is from behind me. The bartender, I realize.

     "I'd like to think I'm better than that." I turn to face
her. She's tall for a woman. Five ten, maybe. Longish red hair,
but lighter roots. It's pinned up .An Arrow Dover shirt, a couple of
sizes too big. A plain black tie. Wire frame glasses. She looks too young
for a place like this.

     Journey starts in over the speakers around the bar.

     "Not if you're willing to come here. This place is a meat
market. Say, you don't drink much, do you?"

     "I don't drink at all, really." I take a chance and smile at
her. She's worth it.  "So if this is a meat market, where's all
the action?"

     "Hang around until close. You'll see." She smiles just a
bit as she pours another shot for another lonely man at the
far end of the bar. I content myself with her drink-mixing
routine. Ice. Fruit. Blend. Liquor. Repeat. She's as unlike
Andi as any woman I've ever found attractive. More athletic than
slender, but a chubby kind of athletic. Large breasts that keep
straining against the buttons on her oversize shirt when she
bends over for more ice. I realize that I immensely enjoy the
way her tie winds its way down her chest.  She's fair like Andi,
though, and she wears her hair pinned up, too.

     Maybe the rum is having an effect after all. I want to talk to
her more.

     I listen to Elton John and Boston and a Billy Joel tune I know
I've heard at least a few times before I have the nerve to get
her attention.

     "Miss?" I say, as she moves to lean against an unoccupied bit
of counter, a rare break in her moment to moment routine.

     "I made last call ten... oh. Want another coke sir?"

     "Am I so old that you need to call me that?"

     "Keeps the wolves at bay, sir." She hands me a tumbler. "Just
coke this time. Prob'ly more your style."

     "I'm sorry. I've never been to a place like this."

     "I can tell. It's customary to tip bartenders, for starts."

     "Oh." I hand her a twenty. "Good enough?"

     She nods. "Divorce?"

     "Hm?"

     "Divorce. Lots of guys come here after their marriage crumbles."

     "No."

     "So you're cheating? Starting over?"

     "No and No. I'm married, but not cheating."

     "Separated? Swinging?"

     "Still no. If I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

     "You're probably right." She puts a rag to the bar and starts
to wipe, slowly. "I've heard every line in the books a hundred
times. Try me anyway. Maybe you'll at least be original." She
gets a hard edge in her voice. She must make that little speech
fifty times a night.

     "I don't want to hit on you."

     "Yeah, and you aren't hitting on anybody else here,
either. Honestly. You don't like the people, you don't like the
drinks... and here it is two in the morning and you're still
sitting at that stool."

     "I'll tell you mine, but only if you tell me yours." I smile. She
rants in the same way as Andi. I'm sure they'd get along famously.

     "Not much to it. This bar was my uncle's. He thought a singles
bar would be a good place to meet women. So he opened one. Anyway,
he passed on - cancer - about six months ago. This place has
cooled off a little since then. Mostly I do the books and ordering
and business stuff, but tonight the regular bartender called
off. Usually, I'm just a normal college girl working a little
job for pizza money."

     "What do you study? Business?"

     "Y'know, if you want to pick up women, you're going to HAVE to
work on those pick-up lines. I'm a - don't laugh - visual arts major."


     "Sounds a lot more fun than running a bar."

     "Most people think it makes me some kind of flake, but the bar
pays my bills... anyway, this is what I meant about closing
time. Watch all the people here just _magically_ pair off." They
do. Amazing. All those men that couldn't get a glance from any
woman in the bar are walking out the door making with those same
women now.

     "So why not you?"

     "This isn't my thing, either. I tried going for a more homey
atmosphere, but the lonely people just keep coming back. I
wish I could sell this place or turn it into a restaurant or
something but I don't have the heart. Uncle Pete loved
this place." She pauses. "Anyway, mister, you aren't changing
the subject until I find out your angle. We don't get men like
you in here very often."

     I sigh. "I'm married, like I said. I'm thirty and I've been married
twelve years. My grade school sweetheart. W-We've... been married for
almost twelve years. I love her more than anything in the world. Never
been with another woman."

     "So what the hell are you DOING here?"

     "I'm thirty and I've never had sex."

     She looks at me like I just walked up and slapped her. "How does
THAT work?"

     "Sounds weird, doesn't it? Andi - that's my wife - has a rare
bone malformation in her pelvis. There's a name for it, but it
doesn't matter, anyway. We never knew - couldn't understand why
I couldn't get inside her. I thought it was me. We were patient
for years. Tried every chance we got. Just didn't work. So a year
after we were married, she went to the doctor, to find out what
was wrong. I thought it was me, but the doctor took one look and
said that if we ever wanted to do it, they'd have to break and
set her pelvis at least three times and even then there was a good
chance things might not set right. We decided not to risk it."

     "Oooookkkkaaaaaayyy." She scans the floor. I realize that,
except for a couple of busboy-types, there's no one else in the building.
"Well, we did all the things that we could, but over time
it's just gotten harder and harder to do anything. It's such a
guilt trip for both of us, really. We... usually don't even try anymore.
About a month ago, Andi decided that I should at least get the chance to
try the in-and-out thing. Like it's fair to either of us that I do
that." I shrug. "Still, here I am. Looking for a woman to fuck."

     "Well, that's definitely an original one. No good opening line,
though.  You're seriously a virgin?"

     "Well, technically. I know what to do with this, though." I put
a finger to my lips and pause. "... so why aren't you running
out the door with one of those lonely guys?"

     "Not my style. A lonely woman, maybe." She grins. "The men here think
it's just a brush-off line, and most of the women here are turned off
by it, but they come back anyway. If it makes you feel better, I guess
I'm technically a virgin too, since I've never been with a guy."

     "Figures. The only woman in the bar that's even remotely appealing
and come to find out she's GAY."

     "Remotely appealing? Is that the best I get? Personally, I think
I'm doing great in the looks department..." The edge is out of
her voice, replaced with a glimmer in her eye.

     "Are you TRYING to tease me?"

     "A little. It's fun. You're easy."

     "Maybe I'm taking this a little too seriously. Andi just wanted
me to go out and TRY, though. I told her I'd do it, but just
this one time. She  means more to me than sitting around in a
place like this."

     "It's not that bad. We keep it clean."

     "At least you're honest about it."

     "Yeah.... Look, so are you serious about all that shit with the
doctors and the guilt?"

     "Yes. Not something to kid about. I love my wife but it's one
of my fondest wishes to , um, feel what it's like."

     "I understand that part, at least." She makes a final sweep of
the bar with her rag, smiling. "Looks like you struck out on the singles
front, though."

     "So, um... know any loose women that DON'T need money or a
commitment for a roll in the hay?"

     "Maybe one or two." She smiles as she takes my hand and leads
me toward a door marked "Employees Only" at the back of the room.

             ----
     She's  breathing hard by the time we got to the top of the
stairs leading up to her loft over the bar. Not the kind of hard
breathing that goes with hard work. Not quite like the way Andi is
when she's horny, either. But breathing hard nevertheless.

     "Here's the rules. First: I'll do it."

     "Do what?"

     "Fuck you." She gave me a cross-eyed look. "I'll do it. 'Cause
I think you're a good man and you're being honest and you love
your wife. But... I don't ever want to see you after this. Forget
I'm alive. Second: Kiss my lips and you are out of here. Don't
think I can't make it happen. Third, I get to come before you
get to come inside me."

     I nod. It's a bit stupefying. "Why me?"

     "My last girlfriend left over six months ago. It's been
awhile. It isn't like this town is really big enough for a
real lesbian scene, 'cept those on the four year-dyke plan at
school, and I'm not into that. Besides, maybe I'll wind up being
a mommy. Not like I want a whole lot of opportunities there. Now,
come on in. We'll have coffee and make with the small talk for awhile."

     I almost start to voice an objection over the 'mommy' part, but
I let it slide as she pushes her way through the steel door of
her home.

     It's a basic attic, done over with dropclothes and splattered
paints. There's a futon in one corner and a badly-beaten table
from the bar downstairs, covered with books and magazines in
the other. Lamps and unlit candles everywhere. A sink and open
shower basin round out the furnishings, other than the things
she was under the dropclothes. There are newspaper clippings
and magazine ads glued to the walls and several small piles of
dirty clothes on the floor.

     "It's not much, but it's home. I'd pay a ton to rent a work
space like this." I notice that there are large windows on three sides
of the room as she gestures at the accoutrements of her home. "This is
the real reason I put up with this place." She lights a candle on a
spindly wrought-iron stand next to her futon.  "About that coffee..."
She gestures me over to her futon. The sheets are plain white linen, but
clean and fresh.

     "Don't drink that, either." Nervous laugh. My palms are
sweating.

     "You poor man. Such a sheltered life." She shakes her head as
she flicks off the overhead lights. The moon is very bright.

     "Just never liked the stuff. I like tea, though."

     "Herbal tea OK?"

     "Anything you've got is fine." I wipe my palm on a piece of
cloth.

     She rummages under some dropclothes. A pot. A torch. Acetylene
maybe. Water from the sink. "I usually do my cooking downstairs
but you probably don't wanna go back down there." She strikes the torch,
giving the room an eerie blue cast. Steam is rising from the pot in seconds.

     My tea is dark green. A little gritty. I grin and drink it.

     "You'll have to excuse my mess. Some nights I just come up and
crash." I notice that the piece of cloth I've been wiping my hands
on is a pair of panties. "I haven't let anybody up here since I moved in."

     "What about your last... girlfriend?"

     "Her? A lawyer. In the closet. Moving into a loft over a bar with
another woman probably wouldn't've done much for her chances to
make senior associate at her firm, even if we weren't dykes. I've lowered
my expectations a lot since her, but nothing's come up."

     "So I'm the lowest expectation?"

     "Naw. An experiment, maybe. You're kind of cute, for a man."

     "I'm honored then." I sip my tea while she clears a spot on her
futon. "You, ah, sculpt? Or paint? What kind of art..."

     "Both. School projects mostly. Painting is my first love, but I'm
taking a class in metal sculpture. I like that too. I, uh, made this a couple
months ago, back when I was still trying to figure out the torch." She
gestures at the candle holder. It's dark and spindly and there are wax
drippings down the sides. "I didn't know what do with that, or even what
it was, but a couple candles fit on it pretty well." She cocks her head
and laughs. "So what do you do when you aren't trying to pick up strange
lesbians?"

     It takes me a moment form a reply. She loosens the tie
around her neck, then undoes the collar button. Very
distracting. "Uh... architect. I design homes, mostly. A couple
churches. A few years ago, a skyscraper I designed got green-lighted for
construction in Hong Kong, but it was work I'd done as an
intern, so the firm I'd been working for at the time took all
the credit."

     "Funny that we're both artists. Just different scales.
Say, um... do you like music?" Her lips turn down. "OKkkkayy.
Now I'm sounding like I'm thirteen again. I meant... what kind
of music do you like?" She jerks at her belt, whipping it from
her waist. It flies out of her hands. "... gonna hafta find that
before tomorrow." I realize her pants were made for a man. They
practically fall off her hips.

     "Me? Jazz mostly. Dave Brubek... Miles? Anything
like that? I like Diana Krall's new album a lot." Her
legs haven't been shaven in quite a few days, but the hairs
are fine and nearly white.

     Her panties are plain cotton briefs. A couple sizes too
small. She rolls the waistband idly against her palms.
"Figures. I've got all the rock and country crap to ever
hit top forty downstairs and here I pick up somebody who
doesn't like any of it."

     "Didn't say I don't like it. Not my style, though.
So what gets you going if it's not jazz or country?" I revel
in the little lines her panties have impressed on the
too-white skin along her hips and the tiny hairs poking
out from around her muscular thighs.

     "You'll think I'm a freak." She finally pushes
the elastic of her underwear past her knees. They fall
to the floor. "I..."

     "Let me guess... New Age. I'll bet you get all
into new age stuff."

     "Get Out!" Her mouth agape, she jumps slightly.
I notice how unkempt she is between her legs. Hair spreads
out well down her thighs. "Like I'm gonna waste my life
listening to Yanni and John Tesh."

     "Rap?" She stands over me with an 'incredulous
Jerry Springer audience member' expression.

     "Talk to the hand, that's all I got to say."
She giggles and does a little hip shake as she starts
back in on the buttons of her shirt. By the time she's
on the third button, I'm too distracted for more guessing.
"You wouldn't've gotten it anyway... I'm into Philip Glass
and stuff. John Tavener. Arvo P rt. Any bells?"

     I shrug. "It's got to be better than the
stuff that you play downstairs."

     It's her turn to shrug. One whole side of her shirt falls off her
shoulder. "The clientele seems to alternate between oldies rock and R&B
stuff. A little more lively on Friday night, maybe.  So that's mostly what
gets played." She pops a pair of disks out of her boom box. "I've developed
some fairly stereotypical tastes in old Bonny Raitt and Melissa Etheridge,
too. That was Katy's - an old flame's - music more than mine though so I'm
trying to ditch the habit." The tails of her shirt are frustratingly
covering all the things I want to stare at, finally coming to at the middle
of her thigh. "Ever heard Steve Reich? John Adams?  Philip Glass?"

     It's maddening to see the whole inner curve of
her breasts. I shake my head. "Philip Glass. Weird classical
music. Like banging on a piano randomly or something. No? What are they?"
I can't say I'm paying attention at this point. It's been ages since I've
felt true lust, and right now I can feel it rising within and without me.

     "Modern classical. Intricate music. Minimal. Like looking at a
cloud in a soft wind. The same cloud, just a little different every time you
look up. Something like that." She pads over to the shower.

     I shrug. "Not a classical fan, either...  Did you just
make that up?

     "Sort of. It's easy to be poetic about the things you love, isn't
it?" There's no curtain on her shower, just a base and a faucet. She tugs
the knob to the left. Steam starts to rise around the basin.

     "I guess I've never been much of a poet."

     She shrugs the rest of her shirt off as walks over to portable
stereo on the far side of the bed.  A shadow plays over her back as she
pushes a CD into the player. I can't help but admire the view. There's
some writing... Hebrew? Arabic? tattooed just above
the small of her back. "P rt was on top. Hope you don't mind.
It's... living classical music. Living, modern composers.
Not just a bunch of old dead guys." I just nod my head.  The music is so
soft, so simple that I almost strain to hear it at first. It sounds
ancient. Maybe oriental.

     "I, uh, kinda need to wash the day off of me.  Smoking's one
of those things that just doesn't wanna die and, well, I do work in a
bar." She steps into her shower basin. Her tiny nipples harden the
instant the water hits her. "See? You're better at all this than you
thought. Fifteen minutes here and you haven't turned into an asshole
and we're still talking." She squeaks a little 'squeak' when she pulls
a pair of pins from her hair. It slides down her back as the
shower does its work. "I... I suppose I've kinda let things go. Do you want
me to... You want me to shave, right?"

     "'S OK. I've never been with someone who didn't." I almost have to
yell. The shower is quite loud.

     "Believe me, I usually do. Honest. But no prospects
lately and, well, I get a little lazy sometimes." Her whole
torso disappears in clouds of steam and lather.

     "And - my wife - has always been really close to
religious about it. Like every other day at most."

     "See, now that's a pretty clear violation of the
rules - you're not s'posed to talk about your wife with
the 'other woman'." She turns so the water from her shower
sprays her ample chest. Her hair falls to just below her tattoo.

     "I, uh, just don't know if you need to shave."

     "Well, my ex was into my, uh, pits, but for two
girls there's some practical considerations to fingernails
and pubes."

     "I - I see." The whole room is filled with the heat
of her bathing.

     I've never seen a woman shave her legs before.
It's vaguely erotic. A razor's edge emphasizes curves
that normally escape notice. Shaving cream and the passage
of a blade create a negative space that is ever-more revealing
that total nudity. Ankles are teeming dozens of sensuous curves.
Watching her nonchalantly pass a sharpened blade over her most sensitive
parts just leaves me in awe.

     She comes to bed dripping wet.

     The space between her legs, embarrassingly at eye-level,
is as bare as the rest of her. I watch a rivulet of water wind
from her belly button to her puffy vulva, too stunned to speak. "Does
she shave like this? Anne - MY last ex, always said guys are into this."

     I can only shake my head. There is music in the background,
but it's almost composed of silences. "We are." My voice cracks.

     "So why are you still dressed? I thought we were gonna
fuck." Her breasts bounce slightly as she speaks.

     "I didn't know if it would be too forward of me."
I shake my head as I say it. A lame excuse.

     "Fuhgeddaboudit. You can't be any more forward than I
am already. You nervous?"

     I nod.

     "Me too. Tell you what. How 'bout you lay back and I'll
see if I can make you any more relaxed." She starts to finger my
belt.

     "I uh, I'd... I just need a little time. Ten minutes
maybe. We could..." I have to swallow. "We could talk? Maybe?"

     She lays down next to me. The futon creaks. "And here I
thought I was gonna get a little casual sex." She smiles. "So what's
to talk about?"

     "Your name. I don't think I could... you know... without
knowing your name. This music - you seem pretty passionate about that.
Why girls? What's wrong with the, ummm, traditional thing?"

     She slides in a little closer, her head on my chest, her
eyes shining with reflected moonlight. "Name's Em. Everyone is
passionate about music, and men are icky." I hear her first
grown-up laugh.

     "So I'm icky, huh?"

     "You might be. I'm withholding judgment."

     "Well that's one way to turn me on. Withhold judgment."

     "Seriously, I love music. I tried for about four years to
find something musical I'm good at, but the best I ever did was
flipping pages for a piano student at recitals."

     "What about this music in particular?"

     "This? It's called Magnificat. The guy who wrote it is
really, really spiritual. You can tell. There's something really
erotic about the way all the parts - the different voices - rise
and fall and intertwine." Her voice falls to a throaty whisper by
the time she finishes.

     "I was thinking more in general. Why this?"

     "Why jazz?" She shrugs. "I had a girlfriend. The student
pianist I was talking about - who was very focused. Total lotus
flower inner peace. She was in love with this music. More than
with me, but it kind of rubbed off. I'd been an indie-rock
folksy kind of girl before then. Lotsa Indigo Girls and Melissa
Etheridge. Stereotypical dyke music. Now this. It brings me peace."

     "So why girls? Seriously, this time?"

     "I wouldn't say I'm a homosexual." Her voice hit a
sour note. "I've just never seen any reason to be with a man.
Have you?" She pauses. I shake my head. "They smell funny and
are nasty with all the hair and face it, most of them of them
couldn't do emotional connectedness if there was a book with
a sports section and pictures of naked women in the middle
all about it. Plus, that whole hair on the chin thing. What a
cruel joke that is."

     "Touch ."

     "Plus women are soft in all these great places.
Not like I need to tell you about all that. I have a
whole other rant about that."

     "So, um, was it a conscious choice for you?
You know, nature versus nurture?"

     "Not for me, no. I mean, it was awesome
taking Katy - my first girlfriend was named Katy -
to all the dances in high school... we were little
shits back then. And man, did I ever piss my folks
off when they caught us..." She clears her throat.
"Well, we were calling it 'studying' at the time.
I got this whole big long talk - my parents were
real weenies - about how being queer isn't logical.
Not that it's wrong or anything, or even that I
was fifteen and having sex. Nope. Just that the
fact that gay people don't procreate - and would
you ever use the word 'procreate' with your teenager? I
wouldn't. Anyway, that fact, and the fact that other people
wouldn't like what I was doing were the 'logical'
reasons I shouldn't be gay."

     "Coupla years later they offered me a car...
hell, mom even offered to pay for my first time. I told
them to get fucked. It was a lot of bullshit. But I took
Katy to the prom. I wore a tux and I've been wearing
men's clothes ever since. But for me, I never even
thought about guys. I saw one of the Emanuelle movies
when I was about eight. It was on a movie channel
at like eleven o'clock... and there were women
kissing like men and women do in other movies,
and, well, that was it. I knew I wanted to kiss
girls. And then I went to the library and found all
the things I could about girls kissing. I, uh, got to
be a big Marlene Dietrich fan. Hence the fashion sense."

     I put my hand on her shoulder. She's tense. A
little like she's seeking approval, maybe.

     "Well, for me, I basically never anything to say about it, either.
Andi told me she was going to marry me in second grade.  And every year
thereafter. Lived in a small town, and by the time I actually got old
enough to be curious, Andi was right there. We played doctor
'bout three years before either of us really had anything to be curious
about and, well, she knew exactly what to do the very second I told her
I had a sex dream. She gave me a hand job that very minute. Laugh if you
want. She reached in my pants and started and finished in like two minutes.

     "Maybe not something I should say to someone I want to sleep
with..." She smiles.

     "Before she had just been the one girl that hung out
with us guys if you know what I mean. Like a sister, more.
Started trying to have sex a few months later. We were maybe thirteen.
She wanted to wait until after her first period. She, um, really seduced
me. Again.  She said she knew I was the one and that this would
be it. And then I tried to go inside and like, I instantly hit something
hard. It was rough. I asked all the guys I thought I could get away with asking
and they were all telling me things like "stop sticking it in her ass." or
something like that. So I kept thinking I was doing it wrong. We figured
it'd work itself out in time.

     "We eloped two days before I started college. We went to
different schools. The doctor at her campus clinic finally
told her what he thought was going on." I laugh out loud.

     "Our parents didn't even find out we got married until
our sophomore year. I worked enough that summer to
finally get her a ring."

     "That's it, huh? You got married and that's
all there was to life?" She puts her hand on my chest.

     "Not at all. We both finished school and
we both work and have our lives together. Our friends,
hers, mostly, call us a perfect couple. I always tell
them that she's had twenty years to make sure I turned
out the way she wanted and then she puts her finger
on me and says that I'm not done yet. It's a couple
thing I guess."

     We sit in silence for a little while.
I stroke her wet hair, trying to get the courage to
do more. She brushes her fingertips over my chest.
It's harder than I thought it would be. I find myself
absorbed by her music. It's calming.

     I let the CD's music run out. I turn
on my side and let my fingers wander down her back as
strings and bells resolve themselves for the last time.
She shivers at the contact.

     "It's been a while since anyone has touched me."

     I don't say anything, just press myself against
her and imagine what she needs. With Andi it's easy.
Almost automatic. Em is different. I let my hands roam,
not knowing what to do. I guess. I've never not been
touched. Bet it's hard to handle.

     I trace the outlines of her tattoo. Her ass
shivers in a very satisfying way. Found something.
I want to kiss her. That would be next. I pull her
up with my hand instead, and press my lips to her
collarbone. I brush her long hair back and make my
way to her neck. She moans. Her fingers fumble at
the buttons of my shirt.

     I let my lips slide to her breast. Her
nipple is soft, so I purse my lips around it. I feel
her hands on my chest. inside my shirt. She pinches
my nipple. Hard enough to notice, not hard enough to
hurt. I grasp her closer; bury my face in billowy
mountains. To me it's like there's not enough of her,
even as I'm engulfed by her body.

     Her fingers are a little sweaty - mine or her's
I don't know - as she follows the hair down to my navel,
then back up to my neck. I feel her heart race the first time
I touch her ass. I let my fingers trail along the her crevice,
feel her clench against my hand as it passes underneath her.
She presses her chin against my temple, then her lips to my
forehead.

     It's a soft kiss. Gratitude, or joy maybe. Not
lust. Not what I feel. I lift my head. I want to kiss back.
Instinct, followed by shame as I realize how close I've come
to breaking her rules and my own.

     Her wet hair clings to me as we roll. I find myself
beneath her, straddled by her. Candles flicker, and I'm enthralled
by the play of light on her breasts and the shadows they cast on her
tummy. I watch her breathe for a moment. It's marvelous, her belly-button
slowly moving in then out.

     She puts one hand on my shoulder, then the other. Her weight
is pleasant, comfortable. She shifts slightly then falls to one
side as my hardness throbs against her thigh. My zipper is a
struggle for her at first; she needs both hands to start it. I'm
desperate. I buck against her but she pushes back. Finally it
gives way, and I feel instant relief as my cock surges through the
opening in my too-tight pants.

     I run my hands over her hair, her neck, her shoulders.
The belt is easier, and the button on my pants almost an afterthought.
The air is cool where it touches me, except when she exhales.
My boxer shorts are the last restraint. I want to shred them; they
almost hurt me, but she runs her fingers over the tent I've made
and then they suddenly aren't so bad.

     She touches me very lightly, like petting an unfamiliar
dog. One, two fingers over the whole cloth-covered length, front
and back. I moan the first time her fingers pass under the head.
She almost laughs when I lift my hips, but she does comply, finally
stripping the last barrier that separates our bodies.

     I want her to take it in her mouth. That's what I'm
most used to. She makes a fist around it instead, grasping
and tugging. She puts her thumb over the tip, then slides her palm
over as well. I shiver involuntarily as the fingers of her other
hand pass over my sack and beneath me. She takes my balls in her
hand, lifting them against my shaft, and inhales deeply. She sighs
a little as she lets it out, and at last I feel a tentative touch
from her lips. She brushes them over my tip, then lifts her head.

     She goes no further.


     Instead she lifts herself up over me, pushing my shoulders
downward as she half-stands. I recognize her intent immediately and
lower myself further, until she finally stands over me, my ears
pressing comfortably into muscular thighs, my lips resting against
her baldness. Her breasts are at right before my eyes. They sway with
her every breath. There can be only one center of attention for
me now, though.

     Em smells wonderful. Natural.
     I cup my hands around her ribs, to steady her. My first touch
is along her labia. I've never felt something so smooth there, and the
little bit of her excitement I taste is as much reward as I will ever
need for my effort. I let her clit slide between my lips, and I suck,
just a bit, like it's a nipple. She moans softly and her fingers ball
up in my hair. She lifts me closer and I pass my tongue over her whole
sex, from thigh to thigh. I feel her excitement grow with every
sharp breath she takes and every whimper she utters. I press now, just
a bit, letting her feel the underside of my tongue as I glide around
and over her. Her thighs tighten against me and strands of her hair
brush my forehead.

     I do my best to tease, but she's so good in my mouth, and
so demanding in her need, that her climax rushes me like a tidal wave.
I almost can't breathe with her riding my tongue, her legs squeezing
like a vise, her mons hammering against my nose.

     She relaxes at last, her hyperventilating moment of ecstasy
passing to serene afterglow. She brushes her hair back, and I run
my hands to her back. She leans into me.

     "Thank y-you. That was... was what I needed." She whispers,
a million miles from the cute bartender I met just a few hours before.
"Your wife is very lucky to have you for a lover. You're very gentle."
Her voice quivers.

     I rub her belly, then reach for her breasts. She grabs my
wrist.

     "I don't know how to do the rest. I'm sorry."

     "Honestly, Em, I don't either."

     Em folds against me and I hug her. I think about the
kiss again, about how much I miss it in the moment just after her
orgasm. My oh-so-immediate need fades back to mere flesh as we lay
together the long minutes she needs.

     The candle has dripped its way to a smoldering wick before
she lifts her head.

     "I'm ready," she says.

     I roll back to her side, smelling her damp hair as I turn.
"I'm, uh, going to need a little help. I'm sorry."

     "Don't worry, I probably will too." I can tell she's smiling
even though I can't see her face. She bends over the edge of the futon,
reaching underneath. After a moment she comes back up, a bottle in
hand. "This is Probe. It's lube. It makes everything feel good."

     I hear her squirt something onto her hand. The noise is
vaguely impolite.

     Probe, straight from the bottle to the hand to the cock,
is amazingly cold for something stored at room temperature.

     Still, it works as advertised - Em's fingers literally
glide over my manhood. Soon I feel nothing but the warmth of her body
and the pressure applied by her fingers. Heaven in a bottle.

     It takes me just an instant to return to turgidity. Em
doesn't remove her fingers though. I'm almost paralyzed by how
good it feels, and more than a little happy that she hasn't learned
most of the motions used to bring men off.

     Finally, I gather the strength to push her hand away.
I kiss the upper slope of her breast instead, and run my hand
between her legs. She parts them at my touch. She's sticky, but almost
completely dry.

     "I'm just a little scared. Sorry."

     "Should I do something?"

     She nods, handing me her bottle. I squirt the stuff out
until my cupped hand is full. I massage it over her, starting just
below her belly button. I pass over her vulva and between her relaxed
labia. The lube flows freely, and I soon recognize the tiny pebble
between her legs.

     I'm shaking with need by the time she whispers that she's
ready. I kneel on the mattress between her parted legs, one hand
at the base of my cock. I'm ready, too.

     I begin the gentlest way I can, running the head of my
cock over the outside of her labia. She moans slightly when I slide
past her clit, so I rub it again before I press at her entrance.
She bolts upright as soon as I pass inside her, her arms encircling
my shoulders. Her cheek feels wet against my neck.

     It drives me in deeper. I feel like I'm going to slip out,
but something within her is holding me as surely as her arms embrace
my head. It feels... perfect.

     We sink back down to the bed. I'm afraid to put my weight on
her. I lean on my elbow instead. It's hard to find the right rhythm,
so I content myself with her slick warmth until she starts pushing
against my hardness, setting the pace.

     We go very slowly. I feel totally ready to burst, but
her occasional yelp as I thrust too far one way or another quickly
brings me back to the wonderful reality. I try to concentrate on what
I'm doing instead of being lost in the moment.

     I almost make it until I discover that I'm coordinated
enough to play with her with my free hand, even while I pump
in and out of her.

     Em eventually starts to moan, as surely as she did when
I laid between her legs. She grinds against me and her hips
gyrate wildly. Suddenly, all my restraint is for nothing, as she
grabs my cock and pushes me in as far as I can go. It's more than
I can take, and the spasms accompanying my absolute ecstasy echo
the sheer relief of a lifetime's wish fulfilled.

     Looking down from above, for the briefest instant I see
a tiny woman with freckled cheeks smile back up at me, instead of
the fiery girl I know lies beneath me.

     I pause for a moment to admire both forms - the one in
my mind and the one in reality - before a soft whimper makes me
realize that the wonderful person who has given me this greatest
of gifts is still in some need of my attention.

     I pull out of her slowly. My come follows, a string
holding us together. My cock is still very hard, but the tip is
soft and spongy. I touch her cheek. She must've been crying while
we made love. She touches mine, too, wiping away my own sweat and
tears.

     I hold Em for quite some time afterwards, enjoying the combination
of cleanliness and sweat and arousal that covers her. I'm half asleep
when she rolls toward me.

     "It was good. I didn't think it would be, but it was. Thank you."

     "No. I should thank you. I won't ever forget this."

     I start to mumble some more words of endearment before I realize
where I am. I gasp and bolt upright. Orange daybreak is just starting
to peer over the windowsills.

     "Do you want me to go?" Her hair is splayed over the pillow, almost
like a red carpet.

     "I think it's probably better if you do."

     "I don't think I can forget you. I - I certainly don't want to."

     "Just remember the deal." She sighs. "... Go home and tell your
wife you love her, 'kay? Tell her that you were with this crazy girl who
wears men's clothes and doesn't shave her legs and likes kinds of music
that don't ever get played on the radio. Tell her, more than anything
else, that she's what makes you happy. That's what she'll want to know.
Don't say anything else. Just go."

     In truth, I don't know what else I could say.

     My clothes are knotted in with the sheets. I can't find my
socks, and my boxer shorts were flung into wax melted off the candleholder.
There's a comical white stain on them. I forgo both socks and boxers and slip
into my Dockers and shirt as quietly as possible.

     I'm surprised when she follows me downstairs, trailing just a
couple of steps behind me. I try not to look back, but she's naked and not
a bit ashamed.

     "I... have to let you out. Alarm company and all."

     I nod.

     She leans with one shoulder against the wall as she works the
keypad, her eyes heavy-lidded. She touches me on the shoulder as I open
the door.

     "I - I won't forget either." She glances downward. "Thanks."

     I wrap my arms around her. I let the juniper scent of her wet hair
tickle my nose. I feel her breasts press against me one last time and I
hold her as tightly as I can. My hands slide down her back and my lips
graze past her chin.

     Old habits die hard, I guess.

     The next instant I'm outside, Purply daylight and an orange horizon.
My car is the only one left in the half-paved lot.


     ---

     I blow a kiss toward the door as I pull out onto the road. I don't
know quite why, but I tune in the local classical station for the drive
home. Debussey, the smoky-voiced announcer tells me, just about the time
I pull in my driveway.

     The front door isn't even locked. She must've waited up. "Honey,
I'm home..." I stop in midsentence. Andi is curled up on the couch, an
errant lock of golden hair covering her eyes. She's wearing her white
chemise, the one she knows I like, and the tiny string-tied panties that
I have to beg her to put on. I brush the hair out of her eyes.

     She murmurs a bit as I pick her up, and sleepily she wraps her arms
around my shoulders. I walk her to the bedroom and set her down on the
bed as gently as possible.

     She's beautiful at dawn. Long limbed and slender and white, save for
the yellow curls of her hair, the freckles on her cheeks and the gold rings
she wears on her left hand. My hand slides in my pocket self-consciously,
and not just for my ring.

     She mumbles something as I lay down beside her. "It's OK honey."

     She rolls against me, finding the comfy place between my arm and
chest where she always sleeps.

     "What happened?" Her voice cracks a bit.

     "There was a crazy girl. She... wore men's clothes and we
listened to music I've never heard before and... and it was the first time
for both of us."

     "Was she like me?" Andi looks up at me, her eyes half-open.

     "A little, maybe. I think you'd like her. A lot."

     "Did you like it?"

     "Oh, yes. I did like it." It's hard to admit that for
about a million reasons.

     "Do you still want me?"

     I take her in my arms then and press myself against her thigh.
She gives me a Mona Lisa smile. "More than anything in the world." I kiss
her like it's the first time all over again. My hand goes behind her head,
and I take the time to feel her lips against my own, to yearn for the slow,
intimate parting, and for the delicate touch of my wife's tongue as we roll
over and over each other on the bed. I remember the way she likes to be kissed,
and it pleases both of us when she moans appreciation for my gentle bites on
her earlobe. I let my nose rest just behind her neck, and breathe in deeply.
Andi smells of fruit. Peaches. She always has.  My lips fasten to her neck, and
hers to mine. The high-school joy of hickies. I smile at the thought.
The high-school joys of a lot of things...

     "I love you" is the last thing I say before my lips pass far, far
below her neck.

FIN

-- 
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