The Professor's Wive  (M/F rom in the workplace)
 


                        The Professor's Wife 
			

     It was noon, lunch break at the University, and I noted there was
the usual collection of students and office workers sitting in the warm
Spring sun as I took my accustomed shortcut to my office.  Idly glancing
at a woman who was sitting with her skirt drawn up a bit, sunning her
long legs, I smiled to myself for the umpteenth time, thinking how lucky
I was to have obtained the office I had.

     At first glance, it was no prize, this office of mine.  On the
ground floor, along with three other offices, it was accessed from a
single central room, the so-called reception room.  None of the office
spaces were large in this wing, for the University had been growing at a
completely unanticipated rate and over the recent years, the larger
offices had been partitioned  into ever smaller units.  Some, like mine,
were almost laughable.  My space, the one I'd connived and manipulated
to get, was easily three times longer than it was wide. In comparison,
the inside hallway may have been only sightly wider. It was so narrow
that while sitting at my desk, there was inadequate room to walk behind
me.  Still, I loved it.  Only later I learned that my manipulation
hadn't even been tested; no one else wanted it!

     You see, it had what I considered a major benefit - an outside door
that opened onto a tree-studded, sunken courtyard that in midday was
usually flooded with sun and good-looking students.  At least the women
were, I thought to myself.  More, the courtyard connected to the parking
areas, the central research laboratories, the Outpatient Clinic areas as
well as the main hospital. With an outside door, I almost never had to
take the tortuous subterranean halls to our "reception" area; I always
walked through the outside courtyard.  Mostly it was the convenience and
the illusion of great space at one end of my office, but on sunny days
like this, there was a bonus - the sun-worshiping women who congregated
there.

     That late morning, trailing along slowly, my hands sunk in my
pockets, head down, I might have looked like an absent-minded young
professor. The young professor part was right, but my head was down
because I was looking at the various sets of legs that were on display.

     "Mornin', Dr. Burbank."

     I'd been speculating on the geometry of my angle of vision, looking
at the long thighs of a woman sitting on one of the square, concrete
planters outside my office door.  If I were just a few inches lower, or
if she lifted her legs just a smidgen . . .

     I glanced up and saw Judy, my "administrative assistant" smiling at
me. Actually she wasn't *my* assistant; I shared her with three other
guys, but they were gone a lot so it *seemed* like she was mine.  Judy
had once divulged to me her take on the title, 'administrative
assistant.' "Hell, we're all just secretaries - as least that's how I
think of us - but if they call us 'admins' they don't have to pay us
overtime or buy us flowers on Secretaries' Day."  I remembered that and
bought flowers.

     Judy tilted her head at me and gave me that knowing smile.  She'd
caught me (again) ogling her legs.  "Nice day, huh, doc?"

     She often called me "doc" when we were together.  She wasn't trying
to be familiar or disrespectful.  It never occurred to her, I'm sure,
for she was married to a well-known, full-professor and on the academic,
social ladder, was placed well above me.  I was what was euphemistically
referred to as "junior faculty," a new Assistant Professor, promising
perhaps, but not yet proven.  Proven as in tenured where one's
Curriculum Vitae was weighed.  Quality of publications was important,
but not as much as quantity it seemed.  I'd killed my share of trees.

     I liked Judy.  I liked her looks and her spirit and mostly, I liked
her wit and intelligence.  As many young academicians, I unconsciously
judged peoples' intelligence, usually from some lofty intellectual high
ground, and I'd found hers to be keen and in certain areas, superior to
my own.  I hadn't admitted that to her.  I didn't need to.  She was like
me and already knew it.

     "Cat got your tongue?" she asked.

     "Uh . . . guess I was wool gathering," I replied, trying not to
look down at her legs.  The fact of the matter was this: I was
infatuated with Judy.  She didn't know this and I'd never made a move on
her.  She was a respected woman in a high-profile marriage to a
politically-prominent Professor of History.  There was talk that he was
on a fast track to a university presidency.  More importantly, I didn't
hustle married women, period.  Oh, the thought crossed my mind. All the
time actually.  But it hadn't been too great a temptation.  At least not
as long as I kept working the insane hours I had.

     "You have some messages," she added, swinging her legs aside as she
stood up.  I saw a flash of white.  Her panties?  I tried not to look.
And failed.

     She gave me "The Look," that knowing smile that said she knew
exactly what was happening.  Only we didn't talk about it.  Not
directly, anyway.

     "None of them are important," she continued, "but they want you to
head a committee - a resident selection committee."  She wrinkled her
nose in distaste.

     Judy spoke of "they" as if it were us and them.  'They,' of course,
were the entrenched power structure who were artful at delegating scut
work, like the resident selection committee.

     "Shit!  I hate the ponderous, self-important process of committees.
They're so cumbersome and so inefficient."  I spun, pointing a finger at
her. "I have an idea.  Tell 'em I'll do it only if they'll let me pick
the rest of the committee."

     "And you won't pick anyone else, right?"

     I nodded with a little smile.  "Much faster and far more efficient
that way. Why, there's hardly any debate."

     She made a fist and pulled it back to her body.  "I'll draft the
     letter."

     We walked into my office and she paused to pick a dead leaf from
one of my plants by the window.  "You're the only doc with plants.  Know
that?"

     "That's because I'm the only doc with an outside office and  has
someone like you to keep 'em alive," I retorted, stating the obvious.
Before Judy I subscribed to Darwinian selection - if they made it they
made it.  Life's tough. I'd once whined to an advisor that I didn't know
if I could keep a relationship alive.  He suggested I might first try to
keep a plant alive.  He was tough.

     As she reached behind the potted plant to pick a few more
questionable leaves, her blouse was drawn tightly across her back,
outlining a bra strap.  I wasn't sure - sometimes I wondered if she wore
one at all.  She was small breasted (I thought) with sometimes very
prominent nipples (I knew) and in the unconscious way some men have, I
was very aware of her body and what she was wearing.

     I glanced at my watch in the manner time-conscious people do; I
still had a half hour before my lecture.  "Did you finish my notes?" I
asked.

     "Yes," and she nodded to a manilla folder on the center of my desk.
Then she flashed me a sly smile.  "I made a few corrections."

     I groaned.  "Yeah, a few.  Will I even recognize 'em?  As my notes,
that is?"

     "Oh sure.  You're a quick study."

     "Do you correct Bob's papers?" I asked, suspecting she did.  Bob
was her impressive - stuffed-shirt impressive - husband.  My opinions
weren't confined to just the medical school faculty.

     She dropped the leaves in the waste basket and replied without
looking at me, "I used to, but he's become so . . . so stuffy. (I *knew*
it!).  We fight over dumb things, really little things.  It's like he's
got to be right all the time.  And it's getting worse.  Every time he
receives an award or something, he becomes more - I don't know -
entrenched."

     I made a noncommittal "Hmmm" sound.  I had my own opinions about
Professor Renaissance, but I kept them where they belonged, in my head.

     One leaf had fluttered and missed the wastebasket.  Judy bent at
the hips to pick it up and of course, my eyes went to her ass where the
tightly-drawn skirt revealed a clear panty line.  As she stood, she
swung around toward me, again catching my eyes looking at her.

     "Lecher," she said with a serious face, and then smiled as she
walked through to her desk, just out of sight around the corner.

     We had an easy, friendly relationship, Judy and me.  With my
colleagues she was polite, formal and friendly but in a distant way.
They were so concerned with their own little worlds, they hadn't a clue.
My colleagues and I - we seldom talked, at least not about anything
outside of the tight, small world of academic medicine.  And let me tell
you, that's a *small* world.  If they had any social interaction, I
wasn't a part of it. Thank goodness.

     Picking up the new lecture notes, I pulled the swivel chair over to
the outside door and with my feet planted on either side of the door
jamb, I leaned back to check the form.  I wasn't worried; they'd be
better I knew from past experience.  I just wanted to be sure I wouldn't
get lost in a new format, if I needed to look at them at all. When I was
on, the lecture came alive, but now and then, I lost the juice and
occasionally, even my place.

     Paging through the notes, I gave them little more than a cursory
study.  I was still thinking about my 'secretary.'  Judy didn't complain
or tell tales out of school, but I knew that things weren't going well
for her and Bob.  Last week he'd stopped by, mostly it seemed to
harangue her about something or another.  He didn't know I was right
around the corner and assumed the place was empty.  He quickly became so
abusive, I was embarrassed for him, and for Judy.  When he left, she
said out loud, obviously to me, "So, what'd you think of that little
scolding?"

     "Sorry," I called out, "I couldn't help but hear."

     "Yeah, and the people down the hall as well."

     With some chagrin, I recalled the bitter disputes that
characterized the failing relationship I'd had with my wife not many
months before she left. That'd been several years ago.  Not long after,
she'd moved in with a physics postdoc who now, I understood, was on a
greased track to tenure.

     I was in no position to assume any moral high-ground. Relationships
are studded with "growth opportunities" I was told.  When I'd mentioned
this to Judy once, she laughed out loud.  "Is *that* what you call
them?"

     My courtyard entrance enabled me to slip in and out routinely
without the department secretary knowing I'd been there.  When she told
someone that she'd look for me, she really meant it.  My hard-to-find
act saved lots of hassles.  As often, it seemed, those quiet-foot
approaches also kept me hidden from Judy.  Or perhaps she knew but chose
to ignore it. Or maybe she didn't care.  Anyway, I'd overheard several
of her phone conversations with someone named Marie, obviously a friend
and confidant.  Judy was consistently and embarrassingly self-revealing
in those girl-girl phone chats.

     I knew, for instance, that while she and Bob once had a "vibrant
sex life," it was now reduced to "an occasional mercy fuck."  The
bitterness of her tone suggested that it was she who was at mercy.  Last
week I'd overheard her say, "I don't leave home without it. Why, my
vibrator, of course."

     I had banged my chair and rattled an open drawer to remind her I
was there.  It appeared to make no difference.  A few minutes later, she
rolled her chair back, looked into my office and red-faced, asked,
"Well, what do *you* do?"

     I'd just been thinking about what I did.  Was even thinking about
going to the Men's room to do what I did.  I sputtered, feeling the heat
rise in my face.

     "That's what I thought!" she said in a tone that suggested her
suspicions had been correct.  Her laughter removed any sting.

     Over weeks and months, an easy familiarity had grown  between us.
Oh, nothing was said overtly, but our nonverbal communication was
zinging.  Just the day before she'd come into my office late in the
afternoon, so late I knew most folks had gone home, and she sat on the
corner of my desk.  I gotten rid of the one other chair that used to be
there, trying to make a little more room, and to discourage overlong
visits by students and residents.  The cafeteria was my usual social and
professional meeting place.  It was always deafeningly noisy and offered
the relative privacy of cacophony.

     She dropped a document on my desk that was so marked with a red
felt pen it had a bloodied appearance.

     "Oh, make a few changes?" I asked, picking up the paper with a
thumb and index finger.  Judy didn't just make grammatical corrections,
she often made huge formatting changes and deleted tons of good stuff,
really nifty expressions. "Do you order red pens by the case?"

     We'd clashed on this before.  I thought I was a better-than-average
writer. "You are," she agreed, "but that doesn't mean you can't profit
from a fortuitous association with an editor of my caliber.  And
besides, I only made a few changes."

     Flipping through the bleeding pages, I asked, "A *few*?"

     She turned slightly and leaned forwards, pointing to something on
one of the more colorful pages.  I never saw it, for one of her legs
dropped to the floor and the other lifted slightly, and suddenly, almost
at eye level, I was looking up her skirt.  All the way!  They *were*
white, and with lace trim.  Her voice had receded to a distant murmur.

     Then I became aware of the quiet.  I knew that more in retrospect,
for at that moment I wasn't aware of much aside from her.  Thinking
back, I could feel the sun's warmth at my back, bouncing off the
courtyard tiles and I could hear the birds twittering in the trees and I
could feel a strain in my Calvin Klein's.

     Judy had short, reddish, curly hair and I wondered about the other.
I could see a darker shadow.

     "See enough?" she asked in a soft voice, breaking the silence.

     Startled and red faced, I looked up and sputtered, "Yes . . . I
mean no . . . oh shit, I'm sorry."

     Getting up, she added, "That's OK, Dr. Burbank.  I understand." And
left.

     Understand what?  What's to understand?  That she drives me crazy?
That late at night, aroused and frustrated, her face . . . no, her legs
come to mind?  That she's unattainable?

     Totally unnerved, I left to go on rounds.  At least in that arena I
could put together a few cogent thoughts.  There, the house staff
presented a fascinating case, a man with an impossibly complicated
vascular history compounded by advanced coronary and carotid artery
disease.  Where to start?  Should we even start?  What's most critical?
How might we stage an attempted repair?  Before I knew it, a couple of
hours had past and I'd forgotten about Judy.  Or at least, Judy's legs.

     The court yard was in soft shadow in the early evening.  Someone
was playing music in the distance.  Most of the lights were out; my door
remained open and the lights on, a beacon for me.  I slipped in and
stepping out of my loafers, I sat down and put my stockinged feet on the
desk and just stared at the wall.  I've got to change that calendar, I
thought.  I mean, *two* years old!  Geez, I'm too young to be absent
minded, I argued, but still, what about that damn calendar?

     Tap, tap, tap - I knew that sound - Judy's high heals on the
uncarpeted hallway floor outside our offices.  No one else walked with
such purpose.  The sound turned into our reception room and I heard
something thud against the wall - her purse?

     "Shit, shit, shit," she murmured as the springs of her office chair
squeaked. Even the sound of her picking up the phone was loud in the
tomblike silence of our wing.  She punched in some numbers, holding each
one an unneeded extra second, adding emphasis to her apparent anger.

     "Marie?" she asked, leaning back in her chair.  I knew that
squeaking sound as well. "Marie, I just need to vent for a few minutes.
OK?"

     I was uncertain.  I didn't know if I should just lay low and allow
her the opportunity to "vent" or if I should announce my presence. Still
pondering that dilemma, the one-sided conversation continued. "Yeah, he
stood me up *again*, the bastard!"

     I knew that Bob had the tendency to rank almost anything as more
important than a meeting with Judy.  Once it'd been a grad student's
flat tire.  It was a 'she' grad student, an attractive one at that. Judy
later recounted that Bob had asked reasonably, 'What else could I do?'
AAA turned out not to be the reply he wanted.  "Well, I know what *I'd*
do with that damn tire iron!" she'd hissed into the phone before
slamming it down. I guess she was pissed.

     I thought about slipping out again.  Yeah, that's what I'd do.  I
was good at that.

     "I've been here almost two hours," she went on, "and the
son-of-a-bitch just called and said he couldn't make it.  My best black
dress, heels so high I'm about to fall over, and no bra!  That's right,
honest.  No underpants even!  Damn!"

     No underpants?  I was frozen.  In my mind's eye, I saw her perched
on the corner of my desk.  I could see her thighs, the soft skin, the
deep shadows . . .

     Jesus!  Fifteen years of formal education after high school - hard,
competitive work requiring intense concentration . . . and I was stopped
dead in my tracks by . . . by the image of no underpants.  Suddenly I
was tense with expectation. Of what, for Christ's sake?

     "I'm so damn mad at him, I feel like going out and getting drunk.
What? Oh I *know* I can't drink without throwing up all over myself, but
I still feel like it!"

     I'd entertained a number of visions about Judy but throwing up
wasn't one of them.  Maybe we could share a drink, I thought.  I smiled
at that one.  I'd never had *one* drink in my life - that's why I didn't
drink anymore either.

     "Oh, I don't know.  Go home, I guess.  What else can a middle-aged
professor's wife do?  Yeah, I know.  I'm on the pity pot."

     Middle aged?  Judy was my age, maybe a few years older, and *that*
wasn't middle aged!

     "No, I don't know where *he* is either.  Damn.  Aren't there *any*
men who show up anymore?"

     I leaned back in my chair just a little bit more.  And fell right
over!  Down I went with a crash, my head jammed against the wall, my
legs dangling over the upended front of my swivel chair.  I was dazed
and just lay there, stockinged feet in the air, momentarily out of it.
Or I was until Judy rushed into my office.

     "Bill!  What are *you* doing here?"

     "Uh . . . resting?"

     Pushing her fingers to her mouth, she asked, "Did you hear
everything?"

     "No," I lied; I hadn't heard Marie's side. "Well, not *everything*"

     As if my odd, recumbent position has registered for the first time,
she rushed over to help, reaching down to pull me up.  In so doing, the
low, scooped neckline of her cocktail dress fell away.  She had told
Marie the truth.  No bra.

     She glanced down at herself and then shrugged, "Well, you heard me.
I *said* I didn't have any underwear on."  Her face was as red as mine
felt.

     Because the back of the chair was jammed, it wouldn't swivel and I
flopped about, unable to completely extricate myself from my upside down
position.  I heaved and Judy tugged.  Just as I was pulling over the
top, her high heels betrayed her.  She slipped and fell on her ass, legs
in the air.  Yes, it *was* the same color.

     "Oh shit!" she muttered.  "Can it get any worse?"

     I'm strong and pulled her up easily.  We came together, belly to
belly.  Her eyes were blue and she had freckles across her nose.  Her
lips were moist and parted.  One lower incisor was a tiny bit out of
line.  I could smell her breath, her hair.  We just looked at each
other.  Frozen.

     In a sudden move of unaccustomed intimacy, she placed the tips of
her fingers on my cheek and said, "Thanks, Billy."

     I grabbed her wrist and said, "I'm sorry, Judy . . . uh, sorry
about your date."

     She traced a line on my cheek again and with a slightly bitter
smile said, "So am I," and turned away.

     "Can I do anything?" I asked, following her into her area.

     Picking up her purse where she'd thrown it against the way, she
shrugged her shoulders and said, "Like what?"

     Christ, I didn't know what.  "Uh, maybe you'd like to talk.  I mean
with a guy.  I mean me."  I always was quick.

     She faced me, at first with a puzzled look on her face and then
with a squinty skepticism.  With her fists on her hips, she asked. "Dr.
Burbank, are you trying to get into my pants?"

     "I thought you weren't wearing any."

     "A figure of speech."

      It was late.  She was pissed and I was confused.  We'd been doing
this unacknowledged dance for weeks.  And I knew she didn't consider
herself a victim of sexual discrimination.  What the hell, I'd play it
out a little.

     "Judy, there's a world of difference between *wanting* to get in
your pants - hell, I'm a warm-blooded guy - and *trying* to get in your
pants.  I'll cop to the former, but what's that go to do with anything?

     "Everything."

     "Huh?"

     She sat down and crossed her legs.  I managed not to leer.  "Don't
be so damn dense, doc," and then she smiled at her own D-triplet.  "You
heard my phone conversation."

     I started to object and she held up her hand, silencing me. "Billy,
I've been listening to your phone conversations - occasionally on
purpose - and I know you can't help but hear mine.  No one's fault,
although it *is* embarrassing," she added with a little smile.

     She looked at me.  Staying silent seemed like the wisest course.

     "So you know I'm feeling unloved, unlovable, and vulnerable as
hell."

     I moved around to the front of her desk and sat in a miserably
uncomfortable straight-back.  I thought the desk between us would offer
her a measure of perceived safety from pants invasion.

     "Tell you what, Jude, I'll sit over here and I *promise* I won't
attack you or even make a move on you."  I said the latter with my hand
over my heart, looking upward.

     She burst out laughing.  "God, your sincere act wouldn't make it in
a second grade play."

     I gave her my best hurt look.

     "OK, OK, Billy.  I *do* trust you, you know."

     "That I'll do what?" I asked.

     "Or not do," she answered cryptically.

     We looked at each other across her desktop for long moments and
then, as if she'd made a decision, she put her elbows on the desk and
propped her chin with her hands, saying, "So, where do we start?"

     "How about at the beginning?" I suggested, stretching out my feet,
trying to imply that we had lots of time.

     Her story was a familiar one.  You've heard it before.  Two young
people, both very bright and academically successful, fall in love, get
married, one of 'em (Judy) makes the sacrifices necessary to enhance the
other's career.  He becomes successful, takes her for granted, neglects
her and eventually, little by little, they fall out of love.
Indifference and long neglect sucked the juice from their marriage.
Except they evolved this deal, this partnership, that was very
successful on the surface and neither are willing to just chuck it all,
but aren't able to be really honest about it. Honest with themselves
much less each other.  Neither are willing to talk about it, so they
continue the dance of dishonesty and slowly grow to dislike each other.
Shit! In one form or another, I'd heard it so many times. Once, a long
time before, I'd lived it in the very same way.

     Recognizing that I didn't know how to do relationships after my own
divorce, I'd managed to stay away from enmeshment, even commitment, for
several years. Mostly I was all right with that.  However, there were
times  . . . often late at night, when something was missing.

     "Why dontcha just tell him?" I asked.  I'd reduced life's most
vital principles down to a few hard core actions.

     "Just tell him?"  She shook her head.  "Too complicated.  Too
difficult. Yeah, that's it.  Just too damn hard."

     "Then you're screwed, you know."

     "How's that?" she asked.

     "I'm perhaps the last person to talk, but it's clear, the best
things in life aren't things."

     "What?" She gave me the old one-eyebrow-up look.

     "Well, I can only talk with any certainty about my own stuff, but
it's become clear to me that I can't *buy* peace or happiness or
contentment, or whatever the hell I think I want.  I can't buy it with
money and I can't buy it with achievement."

     "What's left," she asked, leaning back.  It did nice things to the
front of her cocktail dress.

     "It's gotta be an inside job," I replied.

     "Meaning?"

     "That's where real peace lives.  And happiness."

     She looked at me for long minutes, not changing expression. Neither
accepting nor rejecting.

     "So, how do ya do it?"

     "It's simple - tell the truth. That and accepting life on life's
terms."

     She smiled ruefully and said, "May be simple, but it's not easy."

     "Never said it was, girl."

     She glanced at the big clock, shook her head and stood up.  "Thanks
for the talk, doc, for listening to me.  It helped.  I'm not sure just
how, but it did.  I think I just needed to be heard."  She turned to
leave and then turned back, moving toward me.  "And thanks for not
hitting on me.  I don't think I could have resisted."

     I held out my arms and she stepped into them.  We hugged silently
for a long while.  It was the first time.  I could feel her breasts high
on my chest.  With those damn high heels, she was taller than I.  The
push of her pubic bone was just above my own.

     "Friends?" I asked.

     "Hmmm . . . more I think."

     She kissed me on the lips - warm, soft, too brief and was gone.



     The following week she called in sick two days, but she'd left a
message at my home that she was really OK and she'd explain later.  Then
I had to fly back east to New York and then to Dallas, first to a
medical meeting and then to give a talk at a second meeting, a surgical
symposium.  When I checked my messages back home there was another one
from Judy that said something like, "Thanks for the advice. I'd like to
talk again."

     That wasn't a proposition; I knew that.  Still, I tended to drive
well beyond my headlights and negotiate deals I'd not received.  I began
thinking in terms of how I felt about this lady.  That she was smart and
attractive - more, that she was very sexy - I'd known for a long time. I
just hadn't thought about it in a personal way.  It was like fantasizing
about a movie star - while hot, it wasn't really personal. Judy,
however, was occupying a lot of space in my mind and I wasn't sure where
it was all going, if anywhere. She didn't fit in any agenda I had and it
was a little scary.

     The quandary wasn't about sex.  Sex for me wasn't a moral issue.
But messing with someone's life or their marriage potentially was. Sport
fucking's OK I said to myself, but you gotta be sure it's really just
sport.

     That's about as far as I'd taken it - which is to say almost
nowhere - by the time we ran into each other again the next week.  Judy
was watering my plants as I came charging through.

     "Oops.  Sorry, I'm late for a procedure.  Coffee later?"

     "How about dinner?" she countered as I was lost to view in the
courtyard.

     I suppose it wasn't till I'd finished a moderately long surgery
that I remembered what she'd said.  Dinner?  Hmmm.  Someplace dull,
innocent and safe, like a business meeting, or someplace dim and
romantic and probably dangerous?

     She opted for the danger.  I tucked my trepidation away with the
rest of my denial and took her to a candle-lit, hole-in-the-wall
restaurant that usually requires several weeks for a reservation. Except
I'd operated on the guy who owned it and he thought I was some kinda big
deal.  I let him think that, evidence to the contrary.

     Over coffee and desert she got down to business.  "Well, I told
him."

     "Good, I guess.  Told him what?"

     "That as far as I could tell, I didn't love him anymore."

     She'd been studying her coffee with intensity until she looked up
and added, "I asked him what he wanted to do about it."

     "And?"

     "And he was scared to death I'd leave him.  That it'd 'look bad' or
something."

     I put my hand on hers and said, "Judy, what do *you* want to do?"

     She traced a pattern on the back of my hand, not speaking for a
moment. "You know, Bill, I'm not really sure.  And that's OK.  I don't
know where this is going, but I like the start.  I don't need to hurt
him and right now, I don't really need to leave him.  Mostly I want him
to know how I feel, that I'm a person and not a politically correct
fixture."  And then with a little more vehemence, "And I'm not some damn
doormat!"

     She paused, looked away a moment and then took a deep breath before
making eye contact again.

     "I don't know how to say this, Billy.  It sounds weird in my head
and it'll probably sound weirder when I say it, but I've got to say it
or I'll just bust."

     I smiled and nodded.  Words might screw it up.

     "I told him that I was a sexually aware person, that I suspected
he'd been messing around and that was OK as long as he practiced safe
sex."  She smiled to herself, adding, " He almost gasped at that one but
didn't deny it."

     She was studying her empty coffee cup again.

     "More coffee?" I asked.

     "No, I'm floating already.  Can I tell you more?"

     I just nodded again.

     "I told him that if the occasion arose and it was right . . . well,
I told him I might have sex with someone else.  And no, I didn't want to
'share stories.'  I told him I wasn't going to move out and didn't need
him to move out, at least not right now, that I wanted time to sort
things and hoped we could stay friends."  She shrugged and added, "Or at
least have a truce, an understanding as it were."

     Well, that was the gist of it.  She was going to change things,
herself mostly, and didn't have a schedule.  "Anything I can do?" I
asked.

     She gave me that old familiar impish look and in a husky voice
said, "I'm not looking for some guy to save me, to rescue me or to fix
me.  And that includes you, big boy."

     "Good, 'cuz I can't fix anyone."

     "But I treasure our friendship.  You're smart and . . ."

     "Don't forget 'good lookin'" I interjected.

     "And not too bad looking.  Mostly I like your energy.  That and
your honesty.  Remember the 'tell the truth' part?"

     "Did *I* say that?"

     "I'm attracted to you," she said and then added, "but I'm not going
to leave my husband for you.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  You never asked but I
want to get it out on the table."

     "Thanks."

     She leaned forward as if to whisper something in my ear, so I
leaned forward and just happened to look down the front of her dress.
Yep, bare as far as I could see, and that was a long way!

     "You looking at my titties, doctor?"

     "Busted."

     "You'd better.  I wore this dress for you and I'd be pissed if you
didn't notice."

     "Uh . . . wanna have, uh . . . some more coffee?  Say at my place?"

     "Yes I would, but I want you to know up front that we're not going
to do it tonight.  Not that I don't want to.  I do.  But we're not going
to.  Understand?"

     I kissed her fingers, trying to frame my response.  I couldn't, so
I gave up and told her the truth.  "I can't believe how much time my
mind has given you in the last months.  I wake up aroused, holding
myself, thinking about you and how much I want you."

     She beamed.

     "But it's even more important that we do whatever we need to so we
can be friends.  As twitchy as I get near you, it's more important to me
that we're friends. Then, maybe then, we might become something more."

     "Lovers?"

     "Yeah, that's the word I was searching for."

     "Good.  Let's go to your place and . . . and be friends."  She
paused and then added with a smile, "Either you're just saying all the
right things . . . or you have great technique."

     "Me?  Technique?  Hah!"

     As we drove to my house I shared with her that I'd been out of the
dating game so long I didn't know what 'technique' was.  I thought my
greatest technique was asking the Department Chairman's wife to dance at
the annual Christmas party.  What more was there to technique?

     I had a nice place in the hills, far too big for one guy, but that
was the detritus of my former marriage.  I'd done most of my own work,
including the decorating.  I was proud of that.  Once, after having
given a brief tour to a woman at a party there, she'd looked around and
said, "Not bad.  Who's your decorator?" I swelled up and trying to sound
modest, answered, "Me."  She looked skeptical and remarked, "Not bad -
for a guy."

     Judy glanced around and said "Nice digs," as she plopped down in a
large sofa in front of the fireplace, patting the place next to her.  I
sat a place away that I might give her room and be able to face her.
     
     She slipped her pumps off and turned to face me.  The hemline of
her dress, which had started out several inches above the knee, was
pulled to mid thigh.  Was it because she was slender that her legs
looked so long?

     "Don't get carried away with this 'friends' thing.  Sit closer to
me, please."

     That was easy.  I moved next to her and laid a hand across her
shoulder. "Do you have a witching hour?"

     "I told him I was having dinner and not to wait up - not that he
would - that I'd be home quite late.  He asked, 'Tomorrow?'  I said,
'Maybe.'"

     "Will you stay?"

     "I don't know.  Probably not, but let's just see."  She turned to
look at me again and added, "This is all new to me, you know."

     "That makes two of us . . . the blind leading the blind.  Boy!  Are
we hot or what?"

     She leaned against me and said, "You're sweet.  Not a stud, but
sweet."

     "That make me a studless muffin?"

     "I suppose I'll find out, if I hang around long enough."  She
snuggled closer and looked up at me.

     I recognized the offer and knew it wouldn't be made too many times.
"Can I kiss you? I asked.

     She answered by pursing her lips and closing her eyes.  I just
touched her lips with mine, initially softly, even chastely.  That
lasted a few seconds until her mouth softened and opened and I felt the
tip of her tongue trace the underside of my upper lip.

     It lasted a long time.  She was breathing in my mouth and leaning
into me.  She had somehow twisted around to face me.  I guess I'd pulled
back to give her more room, for when she wrapped her arm around my neck,
her torso was draped across mine, half on top.  I could feel her breasts
against my chest again.

     She began licking my neck near my clavicle and I was running my
hand up and down the bare skin of her back.  I didn't know where to
touch.  My hand caught the back of her dress and tugged on it.

     "Wait," she said, as she stood and slowly pulled up the hem of her
brief cocktail dress.  She paused, showing me a tantalizing view of her
thighs and a peek of her panties.

     "Yes!" My throat was dry and my voice suddenly hoarse.

     As she pulled the dress up over one breast, I saw her taut nipple,
a prominent highlight contrasted with the deeper shadows under the
bunched hem.

     She smiled at me and then pulled the dress over her head and
dropped it to the floor.  "There, that's better."

     It sure was.  In the subdued low light she stood there wearing only
very brief panties.  "I'm gonna leave these on," she added, I supposed
setting boundaries.

     I admired her small, firm breasts with prominent nipples and
slightly puffy areolae.  She was lean with a narrow waist and womanly
hips.  Her pantied mons was prominent and terribly feminine. "You're
beautiful, Judy.  You're simply awesome, know that?"

     Falling on me again, she wormed her way closer and replied, "No,
but I love to hear it, doc.  Tell me more!  But first, aren't you way
overdressed?"

     Following her example, I shed my clothes in front of her, slowly
dropping each item alongside hers and like her, I left my briefs on.  I
felt a little embarrassed because of the obvious tenting until she
touched my thigh with the tips of her fingers, just inches from my
bulge, and said, "Nice."

     She pulled me down to her, again managing to land partially on top
of me. "Any music?" she asked.

     I popped up again and pushed the CD Play button.  The sound system
was always on.  "I feel like a yo-yo," I admitted.

     "Buster, you don't look like a yo-yo.  Let's try it again.  Oops, I
gotta pee first; where's the Ladies?"

     Gesturing, I said, "Right around the corner.  It's on the other
side of the fire place.  Can't miss it."

     "Be right back," she said.  I liked the way the near-thong of her
panties exposed about two thirds of her butt.

     After a brief minute or so, she yelled out, "Can I use your
toothbrush?"

     "Help yourself.  Anything." I yelled back.

      Things seemed to go so much smoother in the movies.

     Judy came running back and launched herself at me.  I fell back
onto the couch, holding this wriggling, feminine body, one hand cupping
her pantied butt and the other wrapped around her waist. She had both
arms wrapped around my neck, her thighs astraddle mine and was planting
little kisses all over my face.

     Unplanned, the fingers of my hand slipped inside her panties and I
yanked it back, fearing I'd gone too fast, too far, that I'd offended
her.

     "That's OK.  I like it when you feel my butt."  She wriggled to
signal her pleasure as I cupped her cheek again.  It was soft and
surprisingly firm at the same time.  "I think I've got a good butt. What
do you think, guy?"  She held my face in both hands and continued
kissing my eyes and my mouth, my neck and my ears. Soft, nibbly little
kisses with touches of wet tongue, the tips of her nipples just touching
my chest.

     I was getting harder and it was cramped, caught in my briefs.  I
tried to readjust myself with one hand and she looked down.  "Hey, are
you hiding something from me?"

     She slid back off my thighs and grabbed my tented undershorts in
both hands.  "Come on, doc, lift up.  Help me here."

     What could I do?  It sprang out, spring loaded, almost quivering.

     She paused, her head tilted to one side.  "Nice cock, Billy!"

     Kneeling between my splayed legs, she rested her hands on my thighs
and brushed her curly hair back and forth across my hardness, murmuring
and cooing.  The pleasure was exquisite.  I knew I couldn't hold it much
longer, for that worm of deep desire was moving through my pelvis.

      She kissed the head of my shaft and then took about an inch or so
into her mouth, sucking softly.

     "Jesus!  Jude  . . . that's incredible!"

     She wrapped her hand about the base and began inching me further
into her mouth as she continued to slowly stroke me.  It was so
intensely pleasurable I couldn't believe it was happening, that I was
that lucky.  Jesus, was this 'not doin' it?'"

     I didn't think anything like this was going to happen, certainly
not this way. In some fantasy perhaps, she was the seducee and I, the
aggressive seducer.  I would woo her and love her, slowly cause her to
be hot and mindless and hungry, that she would slip into a vortex of
lust and be overcome by my seduction.  If anything happened at all.  But
what was happening was not part of that script.

     On mindless automatic, my hips were lifting, thrusting upward,
trying to get deeper into her.  I held her head and she held my
insistent cock in a firm grip, controlling my depth.  Then I began to
lose resolution of reality.  I couldn't tell just what was happening. My
back was arched; I was touching with my shoulders and my heels, and her
wet warmth went down and down around the base of my shaft.

     She was in control, she was driving me to some stoney high of
helpless surrender.

     "Uh . . . Jude . . . Jude, I don't think I can hold it.  I'll cum
if you keep that up, babe."

     She took me deeper.  That was it!  I began to lose it.  At that
pinnacle, I couldn't think of her or myself or anything; I was simply
frozen in the moment.

     She gripped the base of my shaft and held it tightly, stroking it,
hold the head just inside her lips.  She told me later that she wanted
to "taste it."

     "Yes, Billy . . . like that, just like that.  Come for me.  Come
for me, babe."

     That pushed me over the edge.  It started and all I could do was
groan.  Near-painful spurts of pleasure rocketed from my depths.  It
seemed to go on and on, never ending. I sagged and then fell back,
drained, emptied.

     Some time later - I don't know how long - I gradually became aware
of the sound of the stereo and a weight - Judy - on my thighs.  She was
still holding my cock, now soft and totally spent.  I guess we both
drifted off.

     Still later I awoke to silence, still on the coach, spooned around
her, a blanket over us.  I could smell the freshness of her hair and the
musk of us.  I cupped her breast and kissed her hair before falling to
sleep again.

     The sun light woke me.  Or perhaps it was the smell of coffee.

     "Rise and shine, studmuffin."

     She stood before me wearing one of my dress shirts, one button
holding it partially closed.  "Coffee, doc?"

     "You OK?" I asked, scrubbing my face with my hands.

     "How do I look?" she asked, holding her arms out.

     The morning sun light was at her back.  It made a small halo about
her freshly brushed hair.  She looked fantastic.  I felt a little ache.

     "You look fantastic, Jude!"

     "Well that's how I feel.  And before you ask, I had a wonderful
time last night, especially the last part!  I feel so . . . so feminine
and so damn sexy.  Thanks for that and more, thanks for not pushing it,
for going slow with me."

     "Judy, if that was slow, I'll become an empty shell if you ever
speed up!"

     "Start taking your vitamins, doc, I have plans for you!  I've got a
lot of catching up to do and I won't *even* tell you how many things I
want to try.  Think you're up to it?"

     I looked under the covers and then grinned.  "Surprise!"