Internet Date

I

With a light touch to the small of your back, I nudged you gently to the couch. Your granddaughter gone to bed, and after you check, you believe for the night. Daughter gone until the wee hours of the morn', and after a flick of the back light which was the signal for "He" snoring, I slipped in and found you between the living and dining rooms, smiling, quietly waiting, warm and gorgeous in the soft flickering light of your raised fireplace.

I'd been camping at Paradise Lakes, and after days of text messages, phone calls, and deep pining, I drove to you. The door was open. The room warm. My heart raced. I saw what I thought was a shadow move as I entered the kitchen and looked to the left. I followed the motion and saw you for the first time. You took my breath away. I stopped. I looked. You heard me come in and watched me enter the room and move through the shadows to you. You waited for me to get to you. You watched me every instant. You opened your arms as I came within striking distance, and as we fell into our first embrace I almost swooned.

I lightly but definitely touch your hip as I raise my hand to the top of you pelvis, and tracing it, feeling its substance, your tone and flex, to the delicious place where your hips met at a glorious valley between two taught curved ridges. With four fingers I follow your valley inside your waist band to warm moisture, and then slowly to the small of your back, and as we conclude our first kiss, deeply warm and sweet, silently lip to lip, lips parted slightly, each inviting and permitting the other to enter if we desire, and we both do, just to touch tongues, to feel more of each others soul, hugging, twisting slightly back and forth, pulling each other closer, I feel your breasts on my flexed chest, and you feel my erection beginning with your thigh as we strive for full length touch.

I am feeling the pent up tension of the frustration of the distance within which we developed what we are to each other and want to be within you. I want to be deeply within you. I want to be as deeply within you as I can be. I want to touch each centimeter of your moistly viscous vaginal portal to your soul again and again with the ridge of the head of my erection, but, we waited this long,

I begin to separate slightly and with my hand at the small of your beautifully curved tensely arched back, begin to guide you backwards to what I perceive as a couch in the shadows, three feet behind you. You understand what I am doing, and as if we had practiced this dance 100 times, as if we were on the ballroom floor, being judged, with no missed step, no clumsiness, no teenage fumbling, we glide to the couch.

As you seat yourself, I release you tenderly, and sit next to you, hip to hip and without asking, I can wait no longer, I open the zipper of your sweater, and opening you, gaze upon the beauty of your breasts for the first time. I tremble as I first touch your nipple, you lean your head back and look at me as I slowly experience your nipple between my thumb and fore finger, and then the weight of your breast with my palm, and then I take my hand away, close your sweater, zip it a little, and focus on your gorgeous face, gazing at me in shadow.

We have never seen each other. This is our first experience. There is a husband in the house. There is a grandchild in the house. Oh my, it is good I have huge experience at deferred gratification. Rushed, frantic, in these circumstances, this is too precious to jeopardize like that. I whisper, "To you I confer the benefit of my love, and of my lust. I impose no responsibility." I give you a key to room 619. I bend to kiss you good-bye, and silently, I'm in the night air, feeling the Gulf breeze, gliding through the streets upon which I cruise back to my Hotel to wait. I texted you my hotel and room number upon my arrival, that I would be there two days, and then back to Paradise Lakes, where I invited you to join me. It is hard sometimes. All I can do is wait. It is hard sometimes.

It has been a long day of travel. I open my room to the balcony, take off my clothes, and stand leaning on the railing basking, sky clad in the gentle breezes coming off the Gulf. The day is over. I lay on the bed, still feeling the breeze, and thinking of you, touch myself, imagining the grasp of your fingers, the warmth deep, deep within you, remembering your breasts, your touch, your warmth, your presence.

I wrestled with myself about this room. Why not just meet at the Lakes? Wander arm in arm through the nude revelers to our camp site. But I never made peace with that scenario. We became what we became to each other in absolute privacy. Largely in silence. Estranged by space and time, solitary in our individual impressions, each of the other. No instantaneous symbiotic give and take, based on facial contortion, posture, gesture and gate. You basing whatever you base on physical appearance, solely on two photos, three years old, 40 lbs heavier than when I entered your kitchen, with long hair and beard, compared to the closely cropped brushes and fuzz I presented you with in your kitchen. I wondered what you must have thought.

As I drifted to dreamy, deep and surprisingly sound sleep I feared disappointment, or belief of deception. What did you think of my limp, or what black clients and black friends all call my ghetto strut. I wondered if you thought of the Simon & Garfunkel song entitled the "Boxer" who wore reminders of every punch suffered. Again, so far away, yet, this time, so close. I did not want a public meeting. I wanted to meet, touch, know you privately, for hours or days, room service, day trips, in each others arms for hours at a time, forgetting the brevity of our encounter, living in the moment, forgetting what it was like before we touched, before we entered each other, before we quivered within each other, OOooohhhhh Baaaaaaaby, Oh Baby. Baby. Rolling over with a long pillow between my legs, dreaming of your arrival, I was gone.

II

After two hours of deep sleep, dreaming of home, I began to awaken. It felt like home in the dream. It involved my cats, sisters, five years old, never apart, twins, cute as they move throughout the house following me like a couple of puppies. And then I see my lover, she who I called the love of my life, contorted, grotesque, bent, at the waist as an old Spanish woman who cleaned my pension at in Malaga. Face deeply lined with creases of age and grief. Looking at me from what was our room, peering at me from next to what was our bed, inviting me.

I was sorry for her. I pitied her. I loathed her. My cats sat at my feet, Mickey on the right, Michelle on the left. My lover's son, Seth, stumbled in. He was chained, hand to hand, foot to foot, feet to waist, hands to waist, eyes covered, mouth taped, smelling of alcohol, trembling of meth, clearly, to me, in the dream, making no progress to graduation, flushed out of school, they had a plan, GED. Oh, the nightmare scenario. My terror was that he could have done so much, unlimited, but he was done,

I called out, but he could not hear me over the chatter of she, and cries of he. Mickey and Michele were not there any more. My almost one year old beautiful Malamute romped in and ran into me. She killed him because he ran away after she replaced me with a passing fancy. She did not rescue him from the pound and let him be killed. Poor Basheba was sitting at my feet, looking up at me. He said he was sorry he ran away. Oh Basheba, I told him it was not his fault. He never knew what he needed to know.

Seth looked at me, now unshackled, with eyes cast down, said he was doing good, he was learning welding, might get a job in town, at the machine shop. They needed someone to put corners on grain buckets for barn stalls. The job might be good for a month, and then maybe he could get on permanently. She appeared next to her son, and appeared greatly satisfied that they had a plan, hell he was 15, they needed a plan, and they had a plan. She appeared to think it was a good plan, the result of much planning, talking to bottom-feeders, drunks in the local bars and I'm sure one or more of her transient lovers. They had a plan.

In walked one I did not know, in ten gallon hat, plaid skin tight western store shirt, three inch healed, copper tipped cowboy boots, with a buckle at his waist reaching from pubis to belly button. I calmly drew my Walther PP. It was an interesting gun. It was my first double action semi auto. He was looking in the mirror and did not notice. I never could attack one that did not know I was coming. I yelled his name,."Hey, bottom feeder, you piece of dog shit". He looked at me, and I shot him through the left eye, and as he reeled backward, put one in the back of his skull, and as he fell I got another off to his temple before he hit the floor.

In an absolutely desperate cold sweat I jumped up, on my feet in one motion as if picked up by the hand of god, drippingly wet from my sweat on this cool night. I was agitated but absolutely calm, completely focused, straight ahead, in the mirror. I saw only myself in the reflected shadows of that dark mirror. I put my hands down, took a breath, and checked under the pillow for the gun. All was good. I walked onto the balcony. I stood leaning on the railing, nude, in the ambient light of the city, feeling the gulf breezes cooling me until I was dry, until every crease was dry, until my beard was dry, and I felt disconcerted. How could I have let myself be pulled down like this. What a reduction. Throughout my life, even at my most drunk and most violent, when another man came between a lover and I, my deal was with her, and I just moved on to the next, and was done. I was responsible for me, not her, and certainly not him. I had no deal with him, my deal was with her. But now, oh man what a reduction. What a reduction. I couldn't believe it.

It was 3:30 am. I put on white silk draw string pants, black loose cotton "T" shirt, bottom drop shoulder holster, black silk very blousy shirt with loose "V" neck and saddle shoulders. White Adidas leather knock a round's, and our ring. I was waiting for its meaning to clarify, but until then, unlike any time before, I was willing to wear it. No voice, text or email message, so I sent a text to you that I was, "On the road, looking for after hours club, call, and please come over". Grabbing the Walther I was out the door past the relative cool silence of the late night lobby into street sounds and heat. In the middle of 300,000 people, I could feel the tension, the pressure, the rhythm.

The concierge disclosed many of his secrets for $20.00. He asked it I was driving or needed a cab. I advised I walked. He looked at me quizzically, and asked if I had a gun, trying to discourage me. I said "Nah, man." I asked, "Where is the afterhours club. He said there was one, but he did not think I wanted to go there. I asked why. He said it was just like a house, more brothel than club. It was across the highway, next to the strip mall, behind the gas station. Ten minutes, ya, and he pointed the direction. No light, illegal, but open, he thought.

I disappeared into the night of Tampa Bay. I sprinted across the highway, and sauntered south to the strip mall. Behind the gas station was a one story tract house. It appeared out of place as all around it were business buildings. This lone house had a couple Hispanics sitting on the front stoop. I hoped they spoke English. I walked up to the closest. We shook hands as he knocked on the door. I gave him a 10 spot, and the woman who opened the door let me in for $20.00.

III

I'd taken a call from a friend once who wanted me to come observe so I could call for or provide, help if needed. She was meeting a new home care client, and was uncertain as to who he was. I ran his name through the courts and learned he had, in his life, been out of prison three years total, since he turned 18, spread out over two separate occasions of parole. He was thirty eight years of age. He had been in the system since the age of 6 when he was taken from his mother who went to prison. She was killed there in her third year, a day before her release on parole. I took my friend to a rooming house in the hood. I brought my gun. She did not know of this. I advised her of the results of my computer search, and asked her to stay on the porch, in view. There were five black males on the porch. I recognized two of them. I had represented them, and I offered to go with her as I would certainly be welcomed by those guys. She said no, she would be alright, and I watched as she approached the building. They there became obviously animated upon her approach. They had not seen a beautiful, well conditioned, dressed to kill, completely made up, blond, white woman in their midst, ever. I was across a four lane highway in a parking lot. I got out of the car and showed they there I was present. They whom I recognized acknowledged me, and I relaxed a little, but then she disappeared into the building and one by one, they did also, over the next minute or so. I called her cell and it rang directly to message. I resolved to give her fifteen minutes before I went in.

As I looked around the entry room of the Tampa After Hours Club, more like an after set, to which I was admitted by the woman at the door, I thought of this event. Other than white women, I was the only white person I was aware of in the place. But then I thought, is this just racial discomfort, or is it truly dangerous in this place. I have always listened to the hairs on the back of my neck and they were not standing in this place. I did not feel danger. I resolved to find out. I walked up behind the first person I was close to, a 5'8" guy with no shirt, put my hands on his sweaty shoulders lightly, but authoritatively and at the same time asked what was up, as I slid by to a stool at the bar. He was shocked to be touched. I knew he would be. When I did this people always were. But he also reacted as I expected. He immediately calmed. It has been my experience when someone feels my touch, from behind, when I clearly have the drop on them in crowd situations, I can almost feel the pit in their stomach grow. He smiled as I slipped by. Relieved, he got chit-chatty. I could barely understand him through his accent and intoxication, but I listened intently as I ordered a double Jack. I made a mistake when I paid for it. He saw some cash, and it became immediately apparent why he was standing away from the bar. I asked him if I could get him a drink, and he said, "Ya."

"Whisky?"

"Ya."

I ordered him double Jack, and had a friend for life, or at least until I left that place. He took a sip and touched the collar of my shirt. He said, "Silk!"

"Silk."

He seemed to approve and began enjoying the attention of the women who came to see me. I was sitting with my back against the bar, facing the crowd, and the door I came in. A very painted lady approached out of the crowd we had been interacting with. She stopped a few feet away, and opened her front. I enjoyed this and enjoyed looking at her from her eyes to her breasts, belly button, and her delightful labial fold. She shaved. I have always found the area just above a woman's clitoral mound, where a woman's tummy separated into identifiable labia folds, very erotic. I wanted to touch the small of her back, I wanted to slide my hand over her beautifully toned hip, and pull her to me, and with my other hand lightly touch her belly button, and slowly move lightly to the area of separation, to the beginning of her labia, separating her, beginning to open her so I could feel her fill with blood, feel her harden, a little harder, a little deeper, oh man.

Not me, I was there for you. I wanted you. I thought of you. I was not going to touch her. I wanted to touch you. I gave her $20.00 making sure he saw me do so, and then I put her hand in his as I left. The concierge was right. This was more brothel than after-hours club. Enough of Tampa after-hours. Oh, save me from this, I cried as I scooted across the highway, back to my balcony.

Nude, leaning on the railing I checked my messages. Wow man, you were to be here at 10:00 am. Wow, you were to be here at 10:00 am. Oh what was I to do till then, oh what was I to do till then. Oh Enough of this. I was in my vehicle and getting out at the gym-pool building in Paradise Lakes. I had stopped by my camp site to get need-full things. I had the place to my self until 6:30. I did my hour long weight assisted calisthenics and stretch routine. That done, I swam a half mile. That done I joined two ladies in their 30's or so at the sauna. I told them of my excursion into Tampa, and they were unimpressed, seeming to think me foolish for venturing from there to the textil'd world. But it was all good natured, as I have always found nude people to be, and we had a fine time in the sauna. They thought it a little strange that I jumped in the pool every ten to fifteen minutes, and then laid on my lounge chair for ten minutes or so, and then repeated. I told them of my experience in Ostend Belgium, over looking the English Channel, where the pool had ice in it, and where I first learned of the profoundly fundamental calmness precipitated by this

procedure.

As 9:00 am approached, I excused myself, and headed to you.

IV

Oh baby, an hour to wait. Oh baby, an hour to wait. Oh what could I do. Oh what should I do. Oh baby, an hour to wait. Nude on the balcony in daylight was not okay. So I lounged on the bed, on what was to become our bed. You had a key. I decided I did not need to stay awake. If I fell asleep, it was okay, so I laid in bed and thought of what was to happen. Stop the expectations. No fantasies. No plans. Needed to be spontaneous. Needed to be, just be. Oh pins and needles, pins and needles. I decided to meditate. I put a chair in the doorway to the balcony and feeling the Gulf breezes, sat, nude, and began my ritual of calming self awareness.

As I began my mantra, thoughts streammed in, uncontrollably: Oh, she is coming; 0h, what will she think? Did I disappoint last night? Oh, what did she think? Will she come? Yes she will come. Should I go pick her up? No, she can get here. Oh what will she think? Oh, what will she think observing me, experiencing me for the first time? For the first time: only get one chance to make a first impression. Oh, will she enjoy my touch: does she crave me as I her; is it important for her to do so. Is it possible to do so? Is it desirable to do so? Distinct I's, we met in the ethereal never never land of our imaginations. Assisted by photos, assisted by words, assisted by trust, assisted by loneliness, assisted by something lacking in our other lives. Is it the vestige of anonymity that continues to bind us? Are we bound? Have we ever been? Is it that I am . . .. Oh, she will be here soon. Oh, calm. Trust. Believe. It is all good. I am here because I want to be. She wants me to be. She said so. Why would she. What is this all about? She does not need me. Why would she want me? Why? What am I doing! What do I think I am doing! She has a life here, a family here, a cadre of friends here. Why me here? Look to me for that answer. Why am I here? That is why she will be here. What do I feel? That is what she will feel. Oh, as I have meditated, I have gone from you to she, from you to her. Oh my, oh my, I control this, I will personalize it again. Oh, you are on the way, oh, you are on the way. Start arousing, the meditation, such that it was, is over. My eyes open. I look at me, and think of you. Oh, better get dressed. Better we be dressed when you arrive. You will be. We should both be.

I dress, as I was on my excursion to the after hours club: but smell of smoke. I shower and done clean silk. I take a Viagra. You are to be here in fifteen minutes. I sat down to my computer, and wrote to you. Writing to you is almost like being with you. I actually sometime even think of you as having been with me, on reflection, regarding some writings. It is like I have gotten so close to you in my pages it is almost as if you were next to me. But, alas, beautiful baby, I always awake from such perception, and , and , and. You know. I am calm, on pins and needles. I want to see a pet scan of my brain when I think it is you at the door. It would take all scales off the page, plumes of red, blues, whites, flashing across the page as different parts of my mind fire, and fire, and fire again in anticipation, in recognition, in resolution.