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Page 25.
Chapter 11. The Story of K
 K was one of those perfect, Frisian blondes one sees in skin cream commercials. We met while I was browsing in a large bookstore. As so often happened in these Spring/Summer situations, she had noticed me and maneuvered slowly closer. Like a hunter on its prey, she closed in slowly but surely.
Women generally don't admit such a thing, because it sounds too much like something they think a man would do. In nature, however, females need to be aggressive hunters, and in bookstores it is not much different. When I finished in the Philosophy aisle, and turned the corner into the Eastern Religions aisle, she was waiting. At first, she made a pretense of stretching up high for a book she couldn't reach. Wearing jeans and a tight sweater, both of which emphasized her good figure, she turned her milky face toward me. Her long, straight blonde hair gave a toss, and she gave me an inquiring look. Her eyes were cornflower blue, her lips wide and pink. The faint shadows around her eyes and mouth gave away that she was at least 30, not to mention a stray gray hair or two.
"Which one?" I asked, and she said: "That big one about Tantric Yoga."
As I reached up for her (she was tall, but I was taller) she asked: "Have you ever tried it?"
I had to admit that I had not, as I handed her the book. "Looks interesting," I said. I was interested in it, and in her, and she was interested in me, and it.
We wound up having a close, animated conversation at the bookstore coffee shop. We made a date to attend a yoga lecture at the university, and from the lecture that evening she drove me to her apartment. She was divorced, had been an engineering professor's wife, and had one toddler child who spent Tuesday and Thursday evenings at his grandmother's. K was a good mother, but needed a lot of space. The little boy spent much quality time with his two grandmothers, and in fact I gathered that the paternal grandmother thought K was taking a class Tuesday and Thursday evenings, which was a fib. K still had a lot of youth and mayhem in her. She drove her old Volvo stick shift too fast, and at least once in each journey gave someone the finger. I liked the way her fine, corn silk hair swung back and forth under a well-shaped face as she bent over the stick shift. She was one of those women with a long torso, which made her hunch a little in the car. She had probably intimidated the boys of her age group in high school, and probably would have ignored me in favor of some jock. That was then, this was now, and she was the needier one in this different world of her 30s. I could not tame her, but let her vulnerability, as she perceived it, keep her humble—it is the best way I can find to speak of a woman who has been used to being adored all her life, and now is becoming 'one of us.' Of all the Summers and Julys I dated, I probably had more spats with this one than any several others combined. One day we were in the steamy bathroom, where we had just showered. We had bickered about some nonsensical thing, and then made up, had sex, and she was contrite as we toweled, I confronted her at a vulnerable and appropriate moment and showed her her face in the mirror. "You see yourself?" She started to become tearful, and bit her lip in remorse. "You see this gorgeous face?" She nodded. I pointed to the vertical lines on either side. "If you continue being mean and pouting, these will become age wrinkles. Now let me rub some cream on there to soften them up." You never saw a humbler person as She waited like a child for me to get the white European clinical cream, with its clean, orangey under-essence, which I applied liberally to each cheek.
K was temperamental, which made her good in bed. She could bicker one minute, and then @ the next. At first I was put off by the roller coaster, but then I learned to step back and let her thunder and lightning. It was harmless, and in fact most of the time she was right—I was a slob, I didn't pick up my sweater, I didn't take my fork to the sink, I didn't see that the trash was overflowing, etc. She maintained that, since I ended up sleeping at her house most nights, and we @ed through the night, as if she were my whore, I could help out. I
assured her she was not my whore, and I promised to pick up. I was intrigued by this fantasy, though, and I think she was too. She wasn't terribly imaginative, but she was very adventurous. She loved it when I created a fantasy, and she would follow me anywhere in it. The whore thing gave us a frequent play topic. It wasn't about the nasty, violent real world. It was more about the Game. That is, the Game of pursue, elude, catch. It was about all those coy exchanges that happen when two people play. I'm not sure that the same Game plays in both people's heads, but pillow talk amid the shadowy pleasure world of the bedroom can reveal some things.
K and I had come home, showered, and relaxed in our robes and underwear for a while. We were watching a sitcom with attractive young people in it, and I noticed that she was rubbing the inside of her thigh with one hand. Leaning a little closer, I noticed that her robe was slightly open. I could see the pink of her thigh and the black of her silk panties.
She was almost absently stroking herself. I noticed that, with her hand lightly curved, she had her middle finger in her panties. She didn't notice me looking, and I didn't let her know how interested I was. Maybe she wasn't even aware of doing it—I have known several women who casually diddle themselves in the privacy of their homes without necessarily masturbating. I think watching handsome men—and possibly women—arouses them to some low-energy state of interest, and rubbing a damp labia or gently pressuring a slumbering bud under its clitoral hood, without actually bringing it fully erect, offers a pleasant background buzz.
I was trying to guess which of the men she was most interested in, and if any of the women added to her pleasure. There was one scene where two young women were having one of those conversations where they say funny things with a straight face, gesturing and grimacing, and the audience laughs every ten seconds or so. I watched her hand, and it may have slowed a bit, but that long finger stayed hooked in her undoes. She turned her hand so the knuckles were up, and the finger straight, and began rubbing with more energy. But she did that in fits and starts, no matter who was on. During commercials, she removed her hand and used it to hoist her steaming tea mug, or to stir sugar in.
She picked up the TV schedule and read with serious, innocent mien. "Nothing but junk," she said to me. I pretended to be lost in thought, and shrugged, raising an eyebrow to signal I had heard her comment. She put the paper down and resumed stirring her tea. The show came back on and she sipped her tea. Two young men were having a dumb conversation in the living room.
One left, and in came a vivacious young brunette. Her little breasts jiggled as she strode back and forth, and her dress flounced under a pert behind. She sat down, sulking, and the young man sat down close beside her to console her. As she sat thus, her dress rode up, revealing the dimpled insides of her knees and the beginning of one lush thigh. K's hand moved back into her robe, and her finger went back under the panties. First she did the knuckles up diddle, with the @ finger out straight, rubbing rapidly, as if she had to catch up on her erection. Then, having lubricated and swollen herself just enough, the hand relaxed, went knuckles forward, fingers curled, and her @ finger sort of absently brushed up and down along one dewy lip.
"Which one turns you on the most?" I asked, breaking our silence.
She was startled, embarrassed, and flicked her robe shut and folded her hands together in her lap while squeezing her knees protectively together.
"I think you have cute knees like that woman," I said, looking at the actress on the couch.
"She is really cute," K said.
"Does she turn you on?"
K pulled her head in as she coyly raised her shoulders. I put my arm around her shoulder and rested my head against hers. "It's okay if you tell me."
"I'm not lesbian, if that's what you're asking," she said without any rancor. It was a casual statement, like "I am not one of those who put bananas in my peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
"That's fair," I said. I knew that all her rubbing must have stimulated her, and I wanted to see how long she could delay getting really turned on—by the actors, rather than by me. "I didn't think you were."
"Oh? What did you think?" She laid her head back against my shoulder. We were on the verge of another fantasy game.
"I was watching you, seeing that you were getting a little turned on, and I thought you were turned on for me."
She laughed. "For you? How's that?"
"I'm serious. You were turned on by those handsome guys, and I was turned on by those gorgeous women. I think telepathically, in your mind, you sensed that I was turned on, and you tuned into that."
She kissed my earlobe. "You know what? You're nuts." I noticed that her hand had sneaked back into her robe. I could see the outline of her knuckles slowly moving back and forth. I pretended not to notice. I had a huge hard-on by now, but didn't let on yet. "Tell me more," she said.
"Well, not much to tell. Just watch. Look." I pointed to two women in the show, whose titties jiggled in their light sweaters as they circled each other in the living room saying funny stuff that goosed the laugh track. "See how their titties jiggle? The show's producers do all that on purpose. They can't show naked people, so they have women with jiggly breasts and men with huge codwallops." "Cod whats?"
"Codwallops. I made it up, from codpiece, which used to be an item of fashion in the 1500s. Men wore these outer sacs over their pants to emphasize that they had dicks inside."
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