It
was noon, lunch break at the University, and I noted that there was the usual cast of students and
office workers sitting in the warm Spring sun as I took an 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. On the ground floor, along with three other offices, it was accessed
from a single central office, the so-called reception room. None of the office spaces was large,
for the University had been growing at a completely unanticipated rate and over the years, the
large 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. Later I
found out that my manipulation hadn't even been tested; no one else wanted it! You see, it had a
major benefit - an outside door that opened onto a tree-studded, sunken courtyard that in midday
was flooded with sun and oh yes, lots of good looking students. At least the women were, I thought
to myself. More, the courtyard was open 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. Yes, that was a major bonus. That 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 Janey, 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. Janey had once divulged to me her take on the title, 'administrative assistant.' "Hell, we're
all secretaries - as least that's how I think of myself - but if that call us 'admins' they don't
have to pay us overtime or buy us flowers on Secretaries' Day." I remembered that and bought
flowers. Janey tilted her head at me and gave me that knowing smile. She'd caught me ogling her
legs (again). "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 - on the academic, social ladder, 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. I liked Janey. 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 high ground,
and I'd found her's to be keen and sometimes 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 Janey. She didn't seem to 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 did.
"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. Janey 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 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." She made a fist and pulled it
straight back to her side. "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 Janey I subscribed to Darwinian selection - if they
made it they made it. Life's 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 way 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. 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 so . . . well, so stuffy." 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. Janey 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, Janey 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 - we never 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. I just
wanted to be sure I wouldn't get lost in a new format if I needed to look at them at all. Paging
through the notes, I gave them little more than a cursory study. I was still thinking about my
'secretary'. Janey 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 Janey. 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 post-doc 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 Janey 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. Saved lots of
hassles. As often, it seemed, those quiet-foot approaches also kept me hidden from Janey. Or
perhaps she knew but chose to ignore it. Or maybe she was just open. Anyway, I'd overheard several
of her conversations with someone named Marie, obviously a friend and confidant. Janey was
consistently and embarrassingly self-revealing in those girl-girl phone chats. I knew, for
instance, that while she and Bob had 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 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 she'd been reading my mind. 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 had gotten rid of the one other chair that used to be there, trying to make a little more
room. And to discourage over-long 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. Janey 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 few little changes." Flipping through the bleeding pages, I asked, "A *few*?"
She turned slightly and leaned forwards, pointing to something on one of the 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 an unheard 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. Janey had reddish, short, 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 she 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 to me 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? Before I knew it, a couple of hours had past and I'd forgotten about
Janey. Or at least, Janey's legs. The courtyard 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 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 - Janey's high heels 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
tomb-like 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 Janey. Once it'd been a grad student's flat tire. It
was a 'she' grad student, an attractive one at that. Janey 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* to 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 Janey 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? Janey 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 Janey 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 Janey 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. 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, Janey . . . 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 wall,
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. "Janey, 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.

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 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, Janey, 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 in a second grade play." I
gave her my very 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.
We've all heard it before. Two young people, both very bright and academically successful, fall in
love, get married, one of 'em (Janey) 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 juices from their marriage. Except they
evolve this deal, this partnership that is 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 involvement, 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 towards 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 me. 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 second to give a talk at a second
meeting, a surgical symposium. When I checked my messages back home there was another one from
Janey 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. I'd known for a long
time that she was smart and attractive - more, that she was very sexy. 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. Janey, however, was occupying quite a bit of space in my mind and I wasn't sure where it
was going, if anywhere. She didn't fit in any agenda I had and it was a little scary. It 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. Janey 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 'til 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 an 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, "Janey, 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
me, 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?" "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 party. What more was there? 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." Janey 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 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 me. 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 to 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 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, Janey. 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 tent 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 fireplace. 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. Janey 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 head, 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! Janey . . . 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. Was this 'not doin' it?'" 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. 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. "Uh . . . Janey . . . Janey, I don't think I can
hold it back. 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. 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, empty. Some
time later - I don't know how long - I gradually became aware of the sound of the stereo and a
weight - Janey - 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, studmiffin." She stood before me wearing one of my dress shirts,
one button holding it kind of closed. "Coffee, doc?" "You OK?" I asked, scrubbing my face with my
hands. "How do I look?" she asked. 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,
Janey!" "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." "Janey, 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!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~ That was the beginning
really of a friendship that lasted years. We were colleagues and friends and occasional lovers.
Janey's marriage - its ups and downs and the stresses involved with two different people heading in
different directions - eventually ended. It ended not with vitriolic sparks and flames but with a
quiet acceptance. Eventually, Janey fell in love with a guy, a business type in a software startup
firm. He was ten years younger than she, but only chronologically. Her biologic age and her
emotional age was very young and more, vibrant and alive. I see her now and then and there's a
special warmth we share. We've not been lovers in a long time but I remember that last time when
she said, "After I remarry, we won't do this anymore, but in case you're wondering, yes, this has
been awesome. I don't know - maybe it'll never be as good; I want you to know that." I remember.
 

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