The afternoon went by slowly as I sketched an outline for my novel and some sparse details about the main characters. I didn't intend to write a romance novel; I couldn't bring myself to attempt something I had never experienced. Romance was as alien to me as a moon walk. My story was a murder mystery about a crazed woman who stalked the man who date-raped her in college, leaving her emotionally scarred and frightened of men. Even Phyllis, my therapist of two years, thought a novel would be a way to heal my own troubled past.
The day had been unusually hot, leaving the house uncomfortably warm by the time the sun set. I took a glass of cold Chardonnay to the porch and sat on the wooden swing facing the lake. My dinner of pasta, mushrooms, and green peppers had left me languid. The tranquil lake shone beautiful and serene, reflecting the solid darkness of the forest. The evening creatures started their orchestral warm-up, and before long I rocked in rhythm with the symphony of crickets, frogs, and birds.
The splash from a bass jumping near the bank sent ripples against the boat dock, and I watched the wooden structure gently bob in the water. My mind flashed to Margarite's story. I pictured her lying in the dark, carefree and uninhibited, while some man-animal drove her wild with passion. Her eyes closed, her breathing labored, a tiny cry forced from her throat as an orgasm racked her beautiful body. Would I ever experience such freedom and pleasure? I wanted so badly to know the joy I had read about.
"Visualize it, Jamie," said Phyllis over and over in counseling sessions. "See yourself being loved the way you want to be loved."
I closed my eyes instinctively as I rocked. I saw myself standing at the lake's edge in my short, white, cotton nightie, the warm evening breeze caressing my skin and blowing my long hair behind me. I was a wood nymph, a lithe, beautiful, mischievous sprite. His arms encircled my waist as he came from behind and pressed me against his hard body. I relaxed in his embrace as his hands gently slid up my chest and squeezed my breasts, slightly pinching my nipples through the thin cotton. I smiled as I let him stir the coals of passion until his hand crept beneath the hem and ignited the fire.
"Yes," I whispered as his fingers glided across the center of my fire. His lips burned at the back of my neck, and I felt the hardness of his need pressing against me. But he would wait. He came to stoke my fire, and when the heat consumed me, he would quench my desire. Over and over he stroked until I felt my legs wobble. With one arm wrapped around my waist he lifted and held me as I shook, moans hissing through clenched teeth like steam from water drenched molten rocks.
The sound of the Jeep jerked me back to reality, and I quickly pulled my hands from underneath my jumper and took a deep breath to quiet my breathing. I grabbed my wine glass off the railing and took a hearty swallow as Max climbed out of the Jeep and walked towards the cottage. The squeak of the swing caught his ear, and he turned in my direction.
"Hi Jamie," he waved from where he had stopped. "How's it goin'?"
"OK..." My head was buzzing, and I struggled for a light conversation. "The house got kind of warm."
"Yeah...pretty hot today."
He came to the porch, stopping on the other side of the railing from me. He studied me for a long time, as if he wanted to say something but searched for precisely the right words. I waited until the long silence began eating at my nerves. I had a sense that he somehow knew what I had been imagining, what I had been thinking. Could he smell me? Could he smell the moistness wetting my panties? If he did, what then? Would that earthy, natural scent excite him? Did a woman's intimate aroma act like some pheromone to arouse the male? I wanted to ask, but I didn't dare.
"It's dark out here." I looked at a sliver of moon. "I'm not used to no street lights. Do I need to worry about wild animals?"
Max chuckled and looked at his boots before looking back at me. "I don't think so, Jamie. Of course there are a few mountain lions, but they usually don't come near the house. Not unless they get real hungry."
I shivered and unconsciously wrapped my arms around my chest. I had never seen a mountain lion, but I feared them anyway. Hadn't I read where some jogger was attacked and eaten by a mountain lion? Wasn't that in daylight?
"Are there places I should avoid?" I asked.
"Not really. Although generally speaking it's good to make noise when you're on a trail. If they hear you, they hide."
"But they won't come near the house?"
"Not unless you hang a steak from the porch. Look, I can sit with you for a while," offered Max. "If that will make you more comfortable."
"Thanks," I said scooting over and making room on the swing. "I appreciate you humoring a city girl."
When he sat down, I smelled the beer on his breath, and my body tensed. His feet rocked the swing as we stared towards the lake. The night was so dark that a stranger might not even know the lake was there. Yet, we stared as if the noon sun reflected brightly off the water. I wondered what he had done all afternoon, and how he normally spent his weekend nights. Surely he had a girlfriend or two, perhaps a regular.
"You're home early for a Saturday night, Max. Nothing exciting going on in town?" I turned to look at him and smiled teasingly.
"Ran some errands and had a few beers with the guys. You know, shoot a little pool, swap some lies."
"I figured you had a few mountain women standing in line for you." He heard the tease in my voice and looked down at his hands nervously.
"Yeah...well...I guess I haven't figured out where the line starts." He forced a laugh. "You might be surprised at how particular some mountain women are."
I suddenly realized that the guy who I had always felt giddy and shy around wasn't the brazen predator I had always imagined. Max was scared of women. I almost fell off the swing. Max was afraid, perhaps as frightened of the opposite sex as I was. I wanted to laugh at both of us, but I couldn't.
"What about you Jamie? How come no one's snatched you up?" Max managed to change the subject and research me at the same time.
"Oh, I don't know," I said with a sigh. "Maybe I'm too independent; or maybe I just haven't found Mr. Right yet. Lots of Mr. Wrongs, but not a single Mr. Right."
"Any Mr. Close?"
"A couple." Did he hear the remnants of pain in my voice? I had wanted to sound flippant and sophisticated, but my voice betrayed my inner conflict.
"Should I ask what happened?" He draped his arm across the back of the swing, and the heat from his skin caressed my neck.
"I'm afraid there's nothing to reveal."
We rocked silently as our anxieties gamboled through our minds. I felt like a fake, a pretender to normal behavior. I could no sooner confess my pain than I could fly. What would Max think? Wouldn't he see my problem as some small blip in an otherwise privileged life? Wouldn't he merely advise me to get on with my life? Would he compare the episode to falling off a horse - "better climb right back on, sister, before you lose your nerve." Only, I had already lost my nerve. How could I admit that? How could I admit to an irrational fear that kept me on the sidelines while everyone else played? He wouldn't understand. No one would. My doom seemed as permanent as my silence.
"Margarite was terrible at love," he said staring out to the lake.
"Really?" I tried to read his face. Was he kidding... making a joke? Or did Margarite really stink at love? "I always wondered about her...desires." I waited, but he didn't volunteer more. "I would like to know more about her... as an adult, I mean."
"Margarite was unique," said Max smiling at me. "She was a combination of opposite forces. She was as independent as a Siamese cat," he said leaning towards me. "But she was also lonely." He looked out over the lake, as if Margarite's spirit hovered above the water, waiting for his affirmation. "I guess that's what we had in common."
"Do you miss her?" I reached over and laid my hand on his thigh. A spark shot through us, and I instinctively pulled away my hand as Max shuffled in his seat. I was stupid to not check my first instinct. What would he think now? That I was some female on the make?
"Sometimes," said Max looking at me. He stared a little too long, and I sipped wine as a distraction. I couldn't face his eyes and find the reflection of my soul. "Margarite and I knew each other well. We were comfortable with each other...like when you can say anything or do anything in front of someone, and they still like you. I mean anything."
"I don't know if I've ever been that comfortable with anyone," I said. "Except my therapist...but I pay her $90 an hour to listen to my every whim."
Max laughed and then stopped suddenly to look at his hands. "I can't imagine you paying someone to like you, Jamie."
"Oh plenty of people like me, Max. But I don't go around showing my true colors to them." Why was I telling him my secrets? I had already revealed more about myself than I had ever planned. He neither cared nor needed to know.
Max looked at me a long time. I finished my wine before looking at him. In the dark, I couldn't read his expression. Was he interested... or just being polite? Could I risk another epiphany or had I said too much already? The dark was both a friend and an enemy.
"What?" I asked, half grinning to break the tension.
"I was trying to figure out what your true color was. I'm guessing blue."
"Yeah, well..." I stood. "I wasn't planning on showing it tonight." I walked to the screen door and opened it. "Thanks for keeping me company, Max."
"My pleasure, Jamie." He headed for the porch steps. "See you in the morning."
"Night," I said, closing the door behind me.
I closed up the house and headed to bed. I opened the bedroom window to let in the warm breeze and saw the light wink off in the cottage. I stood by the window a moment and thought about Max undressing in the dark. I pictured those tight, slightly hairy buns, the long line of his thigh, the bunched muscles of his shoulders, the rippled snake of his spine. I hadn't seen much of Max, but I recognized his quality. Did another woman grip that back? Did another woman scar his skin with long, red claw marks, evidence of a consuming passion? Did the dark hide teeth marks, love bites? A sudden jealousy flared inside.
"Go to bed, Jamie" I scolded myself. "You're going to drive yourself crazy."
My flannel gown was out of the question on such a close night, so I pulled the covers back and laid on the bed in my panties. I stroked my breasts and listened to the crickets and tried to clear my mind, but my thoughts returned to Max. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt talking to him. He wasn't sexually aggressive like many men. Perhaps his passive nature allowed me to relax around him. I could fantasize about him without feeling threatened. I wondered what things he and Margarite had shared. Somehow, I was sure they created some secret life no one ever suspected could occur, a life as alien as Venus. Maybe they had a relationship that would have surprised everyone.
A noise outside of my window held me still. It sounded like an animal grunting as I strained to hear over my beating heart. I crept from the bed and peered through the curtains at the dark ground. No movement caught my eye, but when I heard the noise again, I realized it came from Max's bedroom.
"Oh my," I whispered as I dropped to my knees near the screen. The grunting got louder, and then quieted again as I imagined what he was doing. Was he rubbing his cock as he pictured me? Or did his mind project Margarite's lovely face and figure? A low growl made me place my ear closer to the screen, but the violent, jerky groans that followed chased me from the window. I shook as I threw the covers over me. Why had I listened? Visions of semen squirting from his cock made me shiver despite the heat. Another vision squeezed into my brain, a vision of another night, another cock, a laugh so incredibly cruel I wanted to pound my head to drive the cackle from my mind. Why did I listen to Max?
"No," I whispered, "No, no, no. Not now, not any more. I'm safe now. No one can harm me. I'm safe." I started to hum as Phyllis had taught me. My mantra rose to my lips. "I'm a good person," I said without conviction. "I deserve to be loved." I paused, but the vision had not been vanquished, the laughter had not died. "I'm a good person," I repeated. "I deserve to be loved." I repeated the phrases until fitful sleep claimed the remnants of my mind.
©Copyright 1996 - 1998 Angela Preston. These stories may not be reprinted in any form without written permission.