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The Poem

By: estragon



I owe this story to Lunanul’s brilliant debut piece, Becoming Whole. If you’re looking for hot, kinky sex, so am I, but you won’t find it in this story, so stop before you’re disappointed. 

*

I was a gopher on the college literary magazine my sophomore year. Then I had more hair, much less fat, many fewer wrinkles, and wanted to be a writer. One or two of the contributors actually did get published, one more than once. For me, that particular dream died with a lot of others. 

I got to read the poems as they came in, sitting in the airless, windowless room allotted to us in a 1930s, wannabe Gothic, PWA building in our public (but cheap) college. They were all written on paper; would you believe the whole entire college had only one computer, an IBM 7 series the size of a walk-in refrigerator. Most of the poems showed promise, most as firestarters for barbecue charcoal, but we had to print a few. Yes, I was an arrogant puppy in those days.

Then there was one; it stopped me. I remember the beginning so well: 

As I lie with you

I go to glory

I go to glory

When I lie with you

And the white owl

One ear cocked to the ceiling

One liquid eye floating in the goblet

Upward.

I remember I shivered. I could feel the poet's arousal, imagine her (I knew it had to be "her" even before I looked at the signature) opening her legs, waiting for the thrust (or better still, the gentle insertion and pressure), tensing, relaxing, waiting for the rush of glory. God, I hoped he was good, a good man, a great fuck; she deserved the best. And if she got tired of him, I was prepared to volunteer on the spot.

Then I read the name: Glynnis Trondheim. Didn't know her, but then her year was two ahead of mine. She'd be graduating the next June.

Someone walked into our cave just then. I looked up and asked whoever it was "Do you know this Glynnis Trondheim? She has a really great poem here." I remember a grunt in reply (the person outranked me, but so did everybody else), to acknowledge that an insignificant being had spoken.

The he or she (who remembers?) said something like "Yeah, she's an English major, Dean's List, I was in a Shakespeare class with her last year."

"Does she ever come around here?" I asked. Yes, I was a puppy indeed.

"She can't get in here."

"Why not?" 

"Her wheelchair won't fit in the elevator."

Of course, this was in the ghastly pre-Americans With Disabilities Act days, when disabled people were meant neither to be seen nor heard. The rest of us were all hot for desegregation and racial equality (I had friends who Freedom Rode, and we all went to all the appropriate demonstrations), but no one thought about gays, Lesbians, or disabled people, except other gays, Lesbians and disabled persons. It would have been a novel thought to the 19-year old puppy that things should be otherwise.

"Oh," I said.

I had written one story that had gotten me second prize in a contest sponsored by the big private university in our city. It meant a half-scholarship, but the other half, all of $800, would have been to my widowed mother with three children and her aged mother to support, like three million dollars would be to me today.

I wrote another story that I submitted to the magazine. Apparently Glynnis was one of the readers, and said she liked it. I don't remember it; it might have been passable. I liked to write then.

So I got to meet her over coffee in the Union. I was anticipating something very special.

She was a shrunken, elfish little girl. Her bright, happy face was like an angel in a Renaissance manuscript. I looked away from the skirt that fell limply over her wasted legs. Her arms were thin but strong. She seemed at one with the wheelchair, as if they had been friends for many years. Her long thin blond hair was brushed but untended, and she ignored makeup.

I shook her hand, expecting the strong grip of one whose life was in her hands. The strength and delicacy surprised me.

"I very much admired The Owl's Story," I began.

"Thank you," she replied, "I really care about that poem."

"I could tell," I said, and looked at the floor.

"Your story about the printer in the printshop and the gymnast on television was very real to me. I do watch television whenever I can find something good." Obviously she didn't get out much in the evenings, I thought; I was a stupid bastard as well as arrogant in those days. Well, maybe some things never change.

I said, "I try to write what I feel, but mostly it doesn't come out right. Either it's stilted or it's incomprehensible to anyone but me."

"I know," she said, "there are some things you can't say and be understood."

What I wanted to say was I love you, I want to fuck you, I want us to go to glory together in one gigantic burst of light, I want to pick you up and carry you to Heaven where you belong. But, though that would be easy to understand, it would also be a top-fuel Class A conversation-stopper. So I said, "Can I get you another cup of coffee?"

I was prepared to blow a large part of my five-dollar weekly pocket money there and then. It would be better than spending the 45 cents on another pack of L&M Filters (and if you're old enough for any of this to make sense to you, my condolences. If it doesn't make sense, congratulations, but settle down--you have a long way to go).

"No, this is fine", she said, which today would translate to "yes I would, but how do I get to a ladies' room anywhere in this building or on this campus that is accessible to someone like me? So no, even though I would love another cup."

We talked a while longer. 

Our non-relationship interaction went on into the Spring. I finally got to visit her at her parents' apartment, in one of the grand downtown buildings miles away, and light years removed, from the crowded two-bedroom flat where all five of our family lived. I had the excuse of delivering printer's proofs for review. She had been elected editor for the final issue of the magazine for her senior year.

Her room was light and friendly, with low shelves and nothing that she could not reach from her wheelchair, with lowered lightswitches and counterweighted windows for easy opening. It was novel then, and must have cost her parents enough to keep our family fed for months.

If you hadn't guessed, I hated being poor.

She smiled as she re-read The White Owl. She looked up and said "It's a lovely poem. I read it again and again."

"It's magnificent," I said. I looked at her bed, narrow, with no posts or headboard, nothing to keep her from easy access unaided. I wanted to put her on that bed and act out The White Owl. I wanted many things then; it took me years to get a few, but Glynnis wasn't one of them.

"My inspiration is coming over soon. Please stay and meet him."

I looked away, as I didn't want her to see my face. A gun? An axe? A castrating knife? Picture wire? My bare hands? The son of a bitch bastard, he's going to fuck her. I want to kill him. 

Then, in that same fraction of a second, sanity returned, and I replied, "Of course, it's so kind of you to ask me to stay, I don't want to intrude----."

A few minutes later the front door opened (I could hear the bell and the murmured greeting to Mrs. Trondheim) and in strode a tall, heavy-set man, much older than I (and he could have killed me, rather than vice versa, so I subsided and played the eager sophomore, a role I was good at).

"Oh Woodsy," She said. Gentle Christ our Saviour, I thought, Woodsy? They are joking, aren't they?

Apparently not. "Hi, Glyn my angel."

I don't remember the conversation, except it was short and inane. Woodsy had graduated from Harvard and was a TA at a neighboring public college. We played the old "who can trump whose epigram", which I won with "St Paul is to Jesus as Lenin is to Marx," which Woodsy thought the height of originality (and for once, I don't think I stole that line from anybody).

I said goodbye and shook hands. It was a rainy spring afternoon and the trip home was lonelier and longer than I had ever remembered.

Glynnis Trondheim graduated with honors. I never saw her again. I had almost forgotten her, stored her away with a lot of broken and useless stuff, until I read Lunanul's story. 

Now I remember, and I have to remember what I don't want to remember.

The Poem of the Pillow



Swollen nipples gliding gently against the mink coat. That was Cullen's main memory of Lisa Foxworth. She had opened her full-length mink coat that evening, as they stood near Rockefeller Center in the snow, and revealed that she was wearing only a black thong, a black garterbelt, and black stockings underneath her mink coat. It was not the first time Cullen had been stunned by her sensuality during that whirlwind week in New York, when their chance encounter had led to a passion neither had known before or since.

As Cullen Favver leaned back in his leather chair, and turned to face out the picture window behind his office desk, his mind reeled under the sheer weight of the sensual images. He recalled the way he had recoiled in unexpected pleasure when Lisa had kissed his nipples. He hadn't known that male nipples were that sensitive, but she patiently taught him. Her instruction -- and he thought of it that way -- was the devil's work. Adjusting his tie, and straightening his vest, Cullen recalled the way she had kissed his thighs, her long hair brushing them. He recalled the way she would look up, almost mockingly, as she kissed his erection. 

But then, returning to his senses, Cullen sat up in the chair, righted his tie, and turned to his appointment book for the month. The holidays were approaching, and surely he could escape the surly bonds of vocational responsibility for a week or two. Perhaps he would go skiing, relax for a few days, get some fresh air. Fresh powder, roaring fireplaces, wool sweaters, relaxing mountain hot tubs. It all seemed to fill the bill. 

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, it had began snowing during the Pledge of Allegiance. The light, powdery flakes danced through the clear mountain air outside the windows of the little classroom where Lisa Foxworth was teaching the stem christie. She had mastered the Arlberg method years before, while completing her doctorate at Ruprecht-Karls-Universitat, and Lisa still enjoyed spending a week or two after Christmas instructing tourists in skiing. It provided a welcome break from her usual routine of biochemical research, and enabled her to keep her firm, lithe thighs in top condition.

As Lisa gestured to the class, and turned to the blackboard to refer to her drawings of various ski maneuvers, many minds in her mostly male class began to wander. Lisa reminded several students of Bailey Quarters from "WKRP in Cincinnati." She was dressed conservatively, yes, but there was an undercurrent of sensuality -- a caged heat. As Lisa turned and demonstrated various ski positions, more than one of her students began to wonder about their studious, yet athletic, teacher -- her demeanor so utterly professional, yet her body so completely tantalizing in a soft cashmere sweater and casual jeans that hugged the supple curves of her body and were a convincing testament to the toning effects of daily skiing.

Upon first catching sight of her, others were reminded of Candace Bergen. Surely, Lisa had the same clear features and the same flowing hair. And yet there was something else. Lisa had the same direct gaze -- a gaze full of knowing sensuality. It was a gaze that left observers wondering if Lisa was the type of woman who would wear a leather garterbelt under a business suit. 

When they saw Lisa flying down the slopes, her hair streaming out behind her, it was easy to discern her total abandon. Then she seemed wholly physical, a flickering flame of pure sensuality, a living embodiment of the theories and techniques she had diagrammed so well. It was but tiny step to imagine her laughing and panting with excitement in a snowbank, and it was this image that spurred even some of the most timid to strap on skis and perch at the top of the most precarious runs at the resort, visions of post-ski interludes with Lisa dancing in front of them.

Knowing her mainly for her expert ski instruction -- and her increasingly rare jokes about Gandhi -- Lisa's students had no way of knowing that Lisa had for years been fascinated by the rich tradition of 17th Century erotic Japanese woodblock prints. She loved Utamaro and his print "Lovers in an Upstairs Room." Utamaro published a book with twelve racy prints. He did shunga, literally "spring pictures," of bijin, the sensuous women who were the subjects of the prints.

On bitterly cold winter mornings, Lisa would arise and shower. As the hot water teased her slender, fit body, Lisa would begin to feel more alert, more ready to face the day. And, being a very healthy person, she would begin to feel the first twinges of daily desire. She believed that sex was inherently an optimistic thing, as her professor years ago in college had taught. Drying herself with a large white towel in front of the full-length mirror in her bathroom, even Lisa could not help but admire her lean, yet tempting figure.

Years ago, as an undergraduate, Lisa had taken "Thong Empowerment 101," a course in which students were taught how to cope with the trials and tribulations of life by means of lingerie therapy. As the course unfolded, Lisa found that there was something uplifting about donning a pretty satin demi-bra. She shivered with delight while putting on stockings and a garterbelt, especially while fastening the stockings to the garterbelt and imagining a handsome guy slowly, slowly kissing the tender, tan flesh at the tops of those stockings. 

And, while all of those experiences were positive, Lisa was most cheered by the process of slowly, slowly wriggling into a wispy little thong. The little bits of fabric, designed to tease both the wearer and the viewer, almost seemed to have been designed by a diabolical force. Lisa knew from her boyfriends over the years how much they enjoyed the visual tease of thongs. How they would gaze, their eyes burning, at the thong fabric as it began its journey around her body. 

Lisa loved to lounge on a bed in her thong, with a boyfriend watching her. She loved the teasing that led up to sex itself. Lisa enjoyed calculating how long it would take before a boyfriend would be unable to simply watch, how long before he gave up and had to kiss the fabric of the thong. How long before his lips found the silken fabric of the thong. How long before she felt rough, whiskery cheeks kissing the sides of her legs, kissing her stomach, kissing her firm, tan hips, the hips totally exposed by the thong. How long before kisses would descend upon her thong tan lines, tickling and tantalizing. How long before kisses would fall on the thong itself. 

With such thoughts racing through her mind every morning, Lisa would slip on one of her delicious thongs and put a hunter green silk robe on over her tan, taut body. She would sip hot coffee and stroll around her bedroom, admiring the Utamaro prints arranged on the walls. "Leave of the Beauty Before Driving" and "Moonlight Revelry" and the rest would lift her spirits. She knew that Utamaro used models from the "pleasure district" and she appreciated that description.

Lisa believed that she, too, inhabited a pleasure district. She lived a very conventional life, yes, but Lisa was a closet hedonist. Clad only in her silk robe and her delicate thong, she gazed every morning upon the erotic scenes depicted in the shunga -- scenes of love in some cases, yes, tender pictures of youthful embraces. But there were pictures of raw sensuality, of steamy passion, of gratuitous lust. As Lisa sipped her morning coffee and looked upon the paintings, her nipples would begin to swell under the silken robe, and she would begin to imagine herself in the paintings. She would imagine her own svelte, yet lush, form responding to the caresses of a lover.

As surely as the day follows the night, Lisa found that her morning routine inflamed her desires. She knew that regular aerobic exercise improved blood flow, and Lisa believed that one often unreported benefit of fitness was more frequent sex. And better sex. Although she could not quantify it and report it in a medical journal, Lisa was convinced that the quality of her orgasms had improved not only with age (she was 37), but also as a consequence of her daily jogging or skiing. 

And so, every morning, Lisa's light green eyes also turned toward her rosewood chest. There, on velvet trays, were the sex toys she had purchased in the Orient. Ruthlessly efficient? Yes, yes, they were. She looked at the toys, the gleaming ivory, the golden beads, and she felt almost miffed that the toy designers knew her too well. But then she felt that old, familiar weakness, the need to feel her first orgasm of the day, the wish to feel the delightful waves of pleasure sweep over her. 

But there were so many choices. Should Lisa merely employ a battery-operated vibrator to have a strong, rapid orgasm and then march off to work? Many days, when she was weary and had no extra time to linger, that was the pragmatic decision. On weekends and vacations, though, she had the luxury of additional time. Then time's winged chariot was not hurrying near, and she could summon a boyfriend to serve as a toy selection and utilization assistant.

On a lazy Saturday morning, Lisa would take a battery-operated vibrator, a bottle of scented oil, and a strand of tiny anal beads from one of the velvet trays. With almost agonizing slowness, she would massage oil all over her body. Looking at herself in the dressing mirror, she would see the oil gleaming on her engorged nipples, see the oil shining on her firm stomach, see the oil glistening on her shaven labia, see the oil on her well-shaped thighs. And, though it smacked of narcissism, Lisa was somewhat seduced by the visual beauty of her own form. 

Tilted the mirror in its oak frame, Lisa angled it toward the bed. There, she was able to see herself recline on the sheets, and she was able to appreciate the delicious nature of the view her male friends enjoyed. She was able to see her delicate, painted fingernails dance over her swollen nipples. And feel the thrills they provided at the same time. She saw her red fingernails slowly, slowly touch her tummy. Watch them slowly, slowly touch the smooth labia. Watching in the mirror, and feeling the sensations at the same time, never failed to excite her. 

Using the oil, Lisa would gently insert one of the tiny anal beads, gasping as the forbidden pleasure first hit. Then, flicking on the switch of the vibrator, she would tease it over her nipples, her stomach, slowly moving herself toward the inevitable first orgasm. Adding a second bead brought Lisa to the brink of climax, but with years of experience she knew how to balance there, on the edge of orgasm, prolonging the delight. Finally, when she was unable to bear the wait, Lisa would add a third bead.

At that point, almost in a frenzy of need, Lisa knew that the merest touch on her clitoris would send her over the cliff. Slowly, in a tiny circular motion of an oiled index finger, Lisa would caress her clitoris and trigger the orgasm. As Lisa began to come, she would think of an erotic image to enhance her orgasm. Lisa would reflect on the image of semen on her swollen nipples. Or Lisa would recall gasping with delight as she rode in the cowgirl position, her hips flexing and moving.

For later orgasms, Lisa drew upon other memories of sensual pleasures she had enjoyed. For instance, Lisa thought back to that week in New York, that crazy week with Cullen. Lisa recalled that first afternoon, when they were returning to their hotel conference room. The elevator was inoperative, so they were taking the stairs, and Lisa was kidding with Cullen, walking up the stairs in front of him, deliberately teasing him with views of her hips in the tight jeans. Finally, in the stairwell, Cullen touched her belt, dropped to his knees, and began kissing her jeans. Lisa was wearing a deep red thong under her jeans, and she could feel Cullen's hot breath on her hips as it burned through her jeans. 

Oh, yes, Lisa recalled that interlude in the stairwell. She had turned to Cullen and grasped the stair rail to steady herself against the onslaught of his passion. There on the stairs, Lisa had felt a wild delight rising at the thought of imminent discovery; yet the urgency of their desire did not afford delay, even for five minutes to make their way back to the room. There, in the stairwell, Lisa lowered herself and balanced precariously on the stairs, fortunately carpeted in a deep pile. Cullen knelt several stairs below and continuted to kiss in a path that would lead him exorably to her thong. 

Glancing upward with the merest shred of discretion, Lisa herself quickly unbuttoned her jeans and wriggled out of them. Lacing her fingers through Cullen's dark hair, Lisa urged him to nibble on the red silk. HIs warm breath contrasted with the cool air of the unheated area, and the sensations the contrast evoked were delightful. Almost as soon as she felt his lips on her skin, she was racked with a paroxysm of ecstasy. 

But that was not all. Still weak-kneed, Lisa started to lift herself to a standing position, but Cullen suddenly swung her up and she realized the further possiblities of the space. She leaned back against the wall, drawing Cullen to her. The stairwell was narrow enough so that she could hardly do anything else but brace her legs against the opposite wall, and Cullen, by now, inflamed with passion, covered her shoulders and neck with kisses as he took his pleasure as well. His hands firmly holding her hips against him, he brought her once again to the heights of delight to as he satisfied his own desire. 

It was these memories that edged into Lisa's consciousness as she struggled to focus on the ski diagrams on the board. Try as she might, the sight of so many broad-shouldered bodies turned eagerly toward her only reminded her of the one in which she found her ultimate match, Cullen. Yes, their encounter had been brief, burned away like individual beauty by time and fevers in an Auden poem, but the images remained. Never before or since had a man satisfied her like Cullen, with his rapacious appetite tempered by finesse. She had been driven to acts she still blushed to remember, but he had incited a desire that still raged through her when she allowed herself to dwell on that week. Often, at night, when she had fulfilled her instructional duties, she allowed herself the indulgence of thinking about things she had not only done with him, but things she would have liked to have done. Her imagination was fertile; her ideas innovative, and her desire limitless, it appeared.

But Lisa returned to the immediate. She placed the chalk decisively in the tray and dismissed her students. Surely, a quick run, followed by a long hot stone massage, and maybe an evening in front of the fireplace would be pleasurable, if not an embodiment of the wild delight she craved. She would be content with that. She collected her ski gear and went out to the slopes, where she skiied until dusk forced her to quit, pushing her muscles until they burned. 

Feeling the satisfaction of her grueling athletic endeavor, she decided to forego her massage and head straight for the hot tub instead for a long soothing soak. She deposited her skis and approached the communal hot tub just as the sky began to spit large downy flakes. But it was a perfect night; the water steamed, and she could see her breath echoing a similar spume of smoke as she exhaled. She was so tired and so desirous of some solitude that she somehow failed to notice that there was one other occupant of the hot tub until she lowered herself into the water. She fixed a polite smile on her face and decorously allowed her eyes to drift toward the line of fir trees beyond the deck as she leaned back against the edge of the tub. 

She was almost in a hypnotic state when she heard her name in tones of disbelief. "Lisa? Is it you?" Her eyes jerked open and she couldn't believe what she saw. Yes, it was he--Cullen, the object of so many fantasies. His face, his body was so familiar from her memory that she was sure without a doubt. All too well she remembered how hard his muscles felt beneath the velvety skin, the way his green eyes half closed in passion, how he kissed her neck and earlobes, and licked between her fingers.

Cullen stood, half-swam across the hot tub toward her, and lifted her up into a long welcoming kiss. But then the kiss of welcome turned torrid. It had been too long, and Cullen had to kiss her shoulders, had to taste the snowflakes as they fell upon her warm arms. Soon, Lisa removed the top of her bikini and watched as little snowflakes and little kisses began to fall upon her turgid nipples. 

Lisa stood to place her bikini top on the edge of the hot tub for later retrieval, and then gasped as Cullen took that opportunity to kiss her tummy. His kisses moved higher, to her engorged nipples. She looked down and saw his tongue licking first one of her nipples, and then the other. She watched the tongue snake out, and then felt its sensual impact. Shivering in the chilly air, and trembling with desire, Lisa descended into the water and pushed Cullen back against the edge of the pool.

Looking up, Lisa began to undo his bathing trunks. As she pulled them off, she noticed his erection, and began to kiss her way up one of his muscular thighs. As her taunting kisses climbed higher, Cullen sucked in a breath of air, wondering if Lisa would repeat the procedure she had demonstrated in New York, whereby she would lightly feather kisses over his testicles as he writhed in pleasure. Although Cullen was quite healthy and could easily have three or four orgasms per day, he knew that Lisa enjoyed making him ejaculate on her schedule rather than his own. 

Being the master of his fate and the captain of his soul, Cullen elected to lower himself into the hot water for a few minutes and compel Lisa to experience some of the oral pleasure she had been lavishing upon him. He pulled Lisa into an upright position and began to kiss her thighs. Turning upward, Cullen kissed Lisa's bikini bottom, which was the only remaining garment preventing her from being deliciously nude. And the word "delicious" was on Cullen's mind as he slowly untied the side-ties of the bikini bottom and once again caught side of Lisa's shaven form.

It had been many months since he had seen Lisa fully naked, and Cullen could not wait to taste her again. He plunged his face toward her tan, taut thighs, kissing the soft inner parts of them. He found it difficult not to simply rain kisses on her with abandon, but his rational sense reminded him it might delight her more to delay her orgasm a little bit by slowly running his tongue over her shaven lips. And, as the snowfall increased in intensity, so did Culllen's kisses, forcing Lisa to say "Oh!" over and over until the familiar spasms of her first orgasm began.



The Poet



"...whereas if you look at Emerson's use of meter," I mumbled to the class, but Lisa Stanton was painting her nails, Justin Bridges was trying very hard to look like he was taking notes as he doodled a rocketship in his notebook, Andrew Haggerson was watching girls out the window, and Dawn Guptil was writing poetry, better stuff than I would ever do. Dawn was brilliant, so much so that in quiet moments, I almost wished she'd give it up and switch to Women's Studies or Business because she'd do things with the medium that I'd only ever dream of. And she was beautiful, and I was glad she was the only one who ever paid attention, because all I wanted to do was lean against my desk and stare at her, she had eyes the color of her skin, her hair fell in blacks waves over her shoulders, and just below that, her breasts. Ah! her perfect breasts - I once caught myself pressing my fingers into the desk, rattling on about William Carlos Williams automatically and thinking about what it must be like for whatever lucky man she loves to hold those wonderful brown orbs, what it must be like after a long day to come home and undo those buttons one by one, slowly, because wonders like that should always be nibbled at, not gulped.

But when I was invited to teach at this college, I promised myself I would never become one of those teachers who screws his students. I thought of the teachers who did that when I was in college ten years ago, bitter old men with big, white beards, giving some dumb blonde a third their age an A so long as she stayed after and sucked him off, while I struggled in the back of the class to get the grades honestly.

Of course, Dawn didn't need to suck me for an A - she deserved all that and more already - but that wasn't the point.

I watched Andrew's lips part as a half dozen cheerleaders walked past, he was making no secret of watching them. Normally, I found it hard to hold this against him, Andrew was tremendously fat, the sort that waddles while he walks, and his greasy hair and pimples must not get him many dates, but today, as I thought about Dawn and how in any other circumstances I'd be sitting by her desk asking her out for coffee, for beer, or just back to my place, Andrew make my blood boil. I don't know why, but his desperation seemed to mock mine, and I snapped very suddenly, "You people aren't even -listening-, are you?"

Every head turned to me, even Dawn's. My breath caught in my throat as her soft, surprised eyes met mine and she set down her pen. "No!" Andrew said, "We're listening! Emerson, right? Emerson."

"You're not listening!" I said. "You're watching the cheerleaders bounce," and the whole class giggled and Andrew turned bright red and stared at his notebook and I felt like a jerk. "Look," I said, "It's a beautiful day. I wouldn't want to be stuck in here either. Why don't you all go out and enjoy the sunshine - you can make yourself a better poet by living in the world than you can in any classroom anyway," and I nodded. "Class dismissed."

Lisa quickly slapped a last coat of paint on her pinky and dropped the polish into her purse. Justin capped his pen and almost ran from the classroom, and Andrew slinked out looking at his feet as he went. "I'm sorry, Professor," he muttered, and I told him not to worry about it, and apologized for embarrassing him. He nodded glumly and left. Dawn went back to her poem.

I just watched her. Maybe I shouldn't have, maybe I should have at least pretended to be working or organizing my papers or something, but I just leaned against my desk and watched. She was passionate when she wrote, she had the sort of energy I only dreamed of recapturing. On more than one occasion I'd seen her rip the page with her pen as she dashed off lines as beautiful and perfect as she herself was. She hesitated, pursing her big lips as she tried to find an ending, and then a triumphant smile burst across her face and she wrote the last line and slapped the notebook closed. "Good one?" I asked.

"Oh yes," she said. Her voice was like flowers, her voice was like a warm breeze, her voice was like the moon. There was nothing like her voice. She stood up and looked at me, and cocked her head slightly. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" she asked. Of course, I didn't say, you can talk to me until the stars burn out and God steps down from His Heaven if you like.

"Sure, but close the door, will you?" She did without asking, and I sat down in my chair and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. It's not that I normally drink in front of students, but my nerves were shaken, my heart was pounding, I needed something to calm me down. Something to keep me professional. I was alone in a shady room with the most beautiful woman I knew. It was all I could do to keep my jaw from going slack. I pured a shot, and trying to pretend it was an afterthought, looked up at her and said, "Want one?"

She smiled - God, her smile! - and nodded, "Yes please." I poured her one and lifted mine in a mock toast , sipping half of it down. Dawn lifted hers and emptied the whole thing into her mouth, slapping it down on the table maybe harder than she'd meant to.

"What can I do for you?" I asked. She hesitated, looking off to the side, her black hair rolling over her shoulder as she did, her sweet lips parting slightly. 

"Do you like m-- do you like my poetry?" she stuttered. "I just started writing again when I came here to college. I stopped in high school because my mother told me I was awful, she said I was just pretending to be Anne Sexton, and I've always been afraid she was right."

"She wasn't," I said firmly, finishing my shot. "You're spectacular. And did you know Anne Sexton stopped writing when she was young for the same reason?"

"Really?" she said, and she was smiling now, her whole face glowed. I felt as though my life were complete having made this wonderful woman happy.

"Yeah," I said, "she quit because her mother told her she was just imitating Sara Teasdale. She only started again because her therapist suggested it. But you aren't imitating Anne Sexton - what you're doing is new and wonderful, and between you and me you're the best poet in the class. Probably in the whole school." I stopped myself before I could babble out "in the whole world."

"I know I don't always seem like I'm paying attention," she said gently, "but if it wasn't for your class I wouldn't have kept up with writing. This class has meant so much to me." And my heart swelled, although the rational fragments of my brain were trying to tamp out the fire by telling me that she was wrong, that my teaching had been passionless and prefabricated, but although they were right, nothing could beat meaning anything to Dawn Guptil. I felt as stupid as a schoolboy. I felt sixteen again. She said, "Do you have a girlfriend?" and I was glad I wasn't drinking when she said so, because I'd have sprayed it across my desk just then.

"Uh - uh, no," I stuttered. She smiled just little and she locked the door. I thought I was going to die as she undid the top button on her white shirt. Then the next. A little brown skin peeked out, and I feared I would explode in my pants as she moved to the third. I meant to sound firm and decisive, but when I opened my mouth all I could do was whisper, "This is probably... wrong or something."

"You don't have a girlfriend?" she said, suddenly confident and sultry, and her hand was still moving down the buttons, and she raised her other hand to her breast and I shuddered and gasped no. "A wife? You're not gay?" and I whispered no and no again and she smiled wider and slid her white shirt over her dark skin, and then she was standing in front of the desk unfastening her chaste white bra. "Then it isn't wrong," she said, lowering her bra slowly, so slowly, I thought I would die before she finished, but then out peeked her tiny dark nipples and then the bra was on the floor and she was rubbing her breasts, and they were everything I'd hoped for and more, her index finger passed over her stiff left nipple and she close her eyes for a moment. I wanted to say it was wrong, or that we shouldn't do it here, or that we should at least close the shades because we were on the first floor, but I was paralyzed. She came around the desk and shifted her long blue skirt and sat down in my lap and she kissed me. She kissed me. Her lips tasted so good, her hair smelled like Spring - how is it that beautiful women always know just how to smell? - and in spite of myself I put my hand in her skirt and rested it on her thigh, and slid it up. Her skin was smooth and soft and I moved up slowly. I wanted to pitch her on the desk and stick it in and go wild, but I didn't. This had to be savoured. She put her small hand in my hair and pressed my face against hers and the tips of my fingers met her soft pubic hair - no underwear! - and slowly, I explored her with my fingers. First the mound. Then the lips. Then the nub of her clit and she moaned into my mouth and I slid a finger inside her and she began to thrust back and forth on it. She pulled open my shirt and gave me electric kisses on my neck, my collarbone, my chest, and I took my finger out of her and unzipped my fly. My cock flew out and without missing a beat, she grabbed it and pressed it into her cunt. I was inside her before my mind even caught up, I went blank for a moment with wonder, and only her little cry as she slid down onto me broke my trance. 

I stood up, lifting her with me, pushing as far into her tight pussy as I would go as I did, holding her by her firm ass as I leaned her against the desk and then I was on top of her and she was making little gasping noises and clutching at me with her cunt and I was thrusting and pushing my body against hers and her fingers were in my hair again and one of the other teachers passed by and glanced into the window and then looked quickly down at his shoes and I did not care.

"I'm going to -" I said, and

"Don't stop!" she whispered desperately, and I slid all the way in and shuddered and the whole world went white and it felt like kissing God as I burst inside her.

And then it was over, and the little details came back into my focus, the way the hair stuck to my sweating forehead, the two hard spots of her nipples against my bare chest, the way she still shook on the desk, her shudders passing slowly. I closed my eyes and put my ear to her heart and just listened - pa-dump pa-dump pa-dump - as the world's spinning slowed back down.



The Poet and His Muse



While Jason Petrov stirred his oatmeal in the boiling water, thinking about the new poem he was writing, saying the line in his head, sensing he was getting closer, the phone rang shattering his thoughts and forcing him to close his eyes at the disturbance. "Oh, fuck!" he muttered out loud, slamming the spoon down on the counter then barked, "Who the hell could that be?" 

He walked over to the phone glancing at the bird feeder outside his kitchen window, noting it was empty then picked up the phone, "Hello," he said, mustering up the strength in an attempt to not sound grumpy. "Oh, Emily," he responded when he heard. "What? You say you're on your way here." 

Jason nodded as he listened. "What do you mean you're on your way here?" he asked, stunned that the graduate student he had been emailing answers to was on his way to his cabin.  "And you're lost," he continued, looking down at his dog, Oscar, whose whimpers indicated he wanted to go out.  Jason put up one finger to Oscar as if saying, "one minute," then, "I'm surprised. I didn't know you were coming here," he spoke into the phone, running his fingers through his thinning white hair, closing his eyes, shaking his head, holding the phone to his ear as he listened. 

"Well, you're not too far away," Jason said carrying the cordless phone to the kitchen door to let Oscar out, glancing up at the sunny sky, glad it wouldn't  rain again for the third day in a row. He then stood at the counter looking down at the pot of oatmeal, giving it a stir, shutting off the flame, trying to remain calm.  "Emily, I'm surprised to hear you're on your way. I don't know what to say."  

Jason nodded, closing his eyes as he realized Emily was ten minutes away and just needed directions. He told her to watch out for the big rock on her left then turn into his lane and keep going through the woods and around a bend then she'd see the solar panels on the right and she'd be here. "See you soon," he added, glancing up at the apple shaped clock, seeing she would be arriving in ten minutes at eight thirty and he wouldn't have time to continue working on his new poem. 

"Damn," he muttered, annoyed that Emily Rubin was going to show up, unexpected, uninvited, intruding on his quiet, simple life where all he wanted was to be left alone so he could work on the book of sonnets he was writing.

After sprinkling raisins on his oatmeal, he took the bowl to the round oak table where he had his laptop and his notebook and where he spent most of the morning writing before going out to garden.  He looked out the window, again noting the bird feeders needed filling, read over the six lines of the new poem while he ate, trying to remember the line he was saying before the phone rang and again, feeling annoyed that someone he hardly knew was about to show up, shook his head, "I don't know about young people today. They just do what they want." 

He knew he couldn't continue working, his mood and concentration had been intruded on by the imminent arrival of the graduate student who was doing her doctoral dissertation on his work. Though Jason felt flattered that anyone would want to do a study of his six books of poetry, the last one published over ten years ago to not much acclaim, he never expected she would just show up at his door. He remembered Emily saying she thought it was by far his best work and deserved much better reception than it received. Still their correspondence was all via email and now he didn't know what would be with her surprise visit.   

Jason knew very little about Emily, had no idea what she looked like or how old she was. All he knew was she was a young woman getting her doctorate in literature from the University of Boston and had now made the uninvited five hour trip to his cabin in Maine.  She had emailed him eight months earlier telling him that she had discovered his poetry in a used book store in Cambridge and knew instantly she had to do her doctorate on his work. She said she was "blown away" by his poetry. Surprised and delighted by her enthusiasm and desire to study his work for her PhD, he agreed to answer some questions and help her in anyway he could, but also how much he valued his privacy and time and he might not always be available.   

All of their emails had been focused on the poems, the techniques he was experimenting with, what was going on in his life at the time in an attempt to put the poems in context and Jason was impressed with how serious Emily was, how probing and insightful, often pointing out things in the poetry that he had not been aware of.  He thanked her when she shared her appreciation of a poem or a particular line and they often sent three or four emails back and forth in a day discussing a particular topic before Emily one day asked if he minded having a gmail chat, that it would be faster and easier and Jason agreed. 

The chats were definitely more efficient and focused mostly on Jason's later books. Emily always had her questions prepared, took notes then typed a new question and waited for his response. One time she asked if he had skype which he didn't and had not intention in getting. "That's cool," Emily responded then asked a few more questions about his work, but more recently, just before signing off she'd ask him what was happening in his personal life, what has he been doing and their on-line conversations became friendlier and a little more casual.  He told her he was working on a new poem and recently finished a short story but also that he baked some bread, what he had planted in the garden, that deer were browsing in front his cabin, but never revealed anything too personal.

 Recently, towards the end of one of their chats, Emily mentioned she was having personal problems and difficulty concentrating but didn't say much more than that. After that, two weeks passed and he hadn't heard from her which surprised him because previously she had contacted him at least every two days with a question.  Then a week ago, he received an email with two questions about a particular poem then wrote at the end of her message that she had broken up with her lover of two years, a young professor in the English Department, and though she was trying to work on her dissertation, she was in a bad way. She might have to take a break and added how much she appreciated the time Jason was giving her, how important she thought his work is, that he deserved to be better known and was determined to finish her dissertation.

 Jason admitted he liked that someone was so interested in his work and his life, especially after having not published anything for ten years. Rarely was he invited to give a reading and he was now resigned to the fact that he was pretty much forgotten after being so acclaimed for his work and his influence on younger poets. It had been twenty years since winning the Pulitzer for his second book, The Hole in the Wall and fifteen since receiving the National Book Award for his fifth book, The Hills of Shangri la. But five years lapsed before his sixth and final book which was published ten years ago with little notice. He recognized he was being replaced by the next generation of poets who were now the darling of the literary magazines and the critics for the New York Review of Books and the New Yorker, where, for a time, his poetry appeared several times a year. No longer was he mentioned or published, nor invited for one or two year positions as Poet in Residence at various universities, and now here he was, a reclusive poet in the woods, writing everyday wondering what, if anything, would become of all the new poems he had written. Not many poets were writing sonnets these days or cared about traditional forms.

Now, Emily had shocked him by announcing she would be there in a few minutes. He finished his oatmeal and was rinsing out the bowl when he heard Oscar bark and saw her red Saab drive up and park next to his rusting pick up truck. He realized he knew so little about her or even what she looked like. He eventually learned she was thirty five, entered graduate school ten years after finishing second in her class at Dartmouth, had been married, divorced, no children but that was it. All of their conversations had been purely professional up until six or so weeks ago when the tone had changed slightly, becoming mildly personal. Then two weeks ago she told him she might have to take a break from her dissertation because of the problems with her lover had gotten worse and she would be in touch. And now she was suddenly showing up.

 Jason opened the door and stood out on his small porch while Oscar ran towards her barking. Emily got out and waved over the roof of her car, then leaned back in to get her backpack, a black laptop case and a briefcase. He could see she was a small with dark hair, but that was all until she started walking up the winding path to his door. Now, he could see she was a slender woman wearing faded jeans, a long green flannel shirt, unbuttoned covering a black turtle neck shirt.

She waved again as she made her way up the path, stopping to kneel down and pet Oscar who was still barking.  When she stepped up on the porch, she looked around at her surroundings, took a deep breath of relief that she had arrived then reached out to shake Jason's hand.

"Bet you're surprised to see me," she said, smiling and Jason was struck by her sparkling blue green eyes and the smallness of her hand as he took it in his.

"You can say that again," Jason answered, pausing, looking at her, noticing how pretty she was, how petite, how her wavy dark hair fell well below her shoulders, her snug jeans, her smile, her dimples, high cheek bones and olive skin which gave her a somewhat exotic look. "What are you doing here? What made you think you could just show up?" he asked, trying not to sound too upset but it was impossible for her to not hear his discomfort and annoyance.

"I know it was crazy. I can't explain it. I just wanted to be here," she said. "I know you're upset with me just showing up."

"Well, you're here, so I better get used to it," Jason said, seeing she was trying to apologize and explain,  "You might as well come in," he said, holding open the screen door for her.  

When they entered the kitchen, her eyes widening as she looked up at the wooden ceiling, noticing the skylights, the windows, the sunlight pouring in the windows, the bird feeders, the round oak table with Jason's laptop and notebook. "Wow, your place is amazing." 

Jason liked her enthusiastic response, the way her eyes moved around the room, how she put her backpack and computer satchel on the floor, rubbed her hand over the wooden counter and felt a warm sensation sweep over him when he realized how beautiful she was, how her smile seemed so radiant, noticing her breasts straining the black turtle neck sweater, barely covered by the unbuttoned baggy green flannel shirt and how her round ass stretched the snug faded jeans. He was stunned by the impact her presence had on him, how his annoyance at her suddenly shifted to pleasure as he absorbed her energy.

"So why are you here?" Jason asked, still bewildered but also fascinated by her.

"To tell you the truth, I don't really know," she said. "It's complicated. That's why I'm here."

"What do you mean it's complicated?" Jason asked, "What made you drive five hours without letting me know and just showing up. I have to admit I was upset when you told me you were lost a few minutes ago and asked for directions." 

"Sorry I upset you" Emily said. "I knew you wouldn't like it. I mean, you told me many times how you want to be left alone but I couldn't help it. I had to come."

"What do you mean you had to come," Jason asked, filling up his white kettle with water, "How about some coffee or tea?" 

"Coffee would be great, make it strong, I've been on the road since four this morning," she said. "Well, you know I broke up with my boyfriend but what you don't know is it was because of you," she said.

"Me! What do you mean it was because of me?"  Jason asked, alarmed. "What did I have to do with you breaking up with your lover?"

"He was jealous," Emily said. "I mean, it's true I kept talking about you and your poetry a lot and he knew I was reading everything thing I could find, every article, every review, all the interviews, especially the one in Paris Review, that was amazing, Jason, that interview and also the article you wrote for Atlantic Monthly about the importance of poetry in a computerized, technological society and how you asked what it means to be human in a highly technological society and that was way before computers took over. That one was visionary, really, sorry to be rambling." 

"That's okay, but I still don't get it, what do you mean he was jealous, jealous of what?" 

"You," Emily answer, pausing looking at him. "He said all I ever talked about was you and if I wasn't talking about you, I was writing about you then one night he kept asking me to come to bed, it was late and I'm a night person and was really into it and he blew up and yelled, 'You're in love with that fucking poet.' I tried to calm him down and said he was being ridiculous and we had a huge fight and the fights continued. He was angry a lot and jealous. To tell you the truth, I began to realize he was a baby, really, but I tried to reassure him that I loved him and wanted to be with him but then I saw he was right."

"What do you mean he was right?" Jason asked just as the kettle's shrill whistle interrupted. He took the kettle, listening while filling the French Press with steaming water.

"I don't know. I mean, he was right that I talked about you a lot, but then I started thinking about how I felt when I read your poetry. It wasn't just the words, but it was something more, like I could feel your spirit, like I thought you were speaking to me, it's so hard to explain.  I told you I found your book in a used book store in Cambridge and was blown away and I had to read everything and that's what I did. I got all of your books.  I was just finishing graduate school at Boston University and had to have a topic for my dissertation.  I had several poetry courses, you know, the eighteenth century classical poets, the Romantics, I did a great paper on Blake, by the way and Keats, you would have loved my paper on Keats, 'heard melodies are sweet but those unheard are sweeter' I love that line. And then I was studying Twentieth Century poets, Frost, Eliot, Pound, Wallace Stevens a bunch of others. I had never heard of you until I found you book and here I am."

"I know you're here," Jason asked still not sure what Emily was saying. "I'm not following you," he added, pressing down the plunger in the coffee press. "Why are you here?"

"I had to find out what was going on with me," Emily answered, "So here I am. I couldn't stop thinking about you, dreaming about you, talking about you. I can see now why Kevin was upset with me and why he couldn't stand you, even though he knew nothing about you and why he just stormed out of our apartment. That's when we broke up. I wrote you about that. It was irrational, I thought and I was in a bad way, confused, hurt, upset, but then I woke up last night, sat up in bed like I was hit with lightening with this feeling that I had to be here and here I am."

 "So what's going on with you, what feeling?" Jason asked. "I still don't know why you're here?"

"I had to see you in person. I mean I have lots of pictures of you from different magazines and I know you're a lot older than me by twenty five years and you're going to think I'm some whacky woman but I was drawn here, I wasn't sure if it was me being romantic, which I am, super romantic, but I was having sexual fantasies about you. Now I hope I don't embarrass you Jason, but I would get so wet thinking about you."

"Emily, I had no idea. Our conversations were always so focused on my work. You seemed so disciplined and serious. I know that recently we started writing to each other about different things and I knew you were having problems with your boyfriend, but I never felt there was something sexual. It never occurred to me."

"How could you? I knew how you said you valued your time and privacy and though I was dying to talk about other things, I kept it professional just out of respect for you."

"Thank you," Jason responded, taking two mugs to the table, moving his computer and note book aside, surprised at what Emily was saying while noticing how green her eyes were, how her olive skin glowed in the sun pouring in the window, how her petite body seemed to be containing a vibrant energy that radiated and washed over him causing a twitching in his cock, surprising him with how attracted he was feeling to this young woman and liking how she spoke with such energy. 

When Emily moved to sit down, her leg brushed his thigh and Jason tried ignoring the accidental touch but noted how a subtle bolt went through him. He tried ignoring what he felt but was surprised that such a tiny touch awakened something deep in him, somehow reminding him what it felt like to have a woman next to him, someone so pretty and lively and how long it had been since he made love to a woman and how resigned he was that he would never have a love life. But that slight touch and how animated Emily was explaining her suddenly coming to his cabin made Jason's mind spin with conflicting feelings. 

Jason poured coffee into Emily's mug and to his, brought over his honey bowl then asked, "Would you like cinnamon in your coffee?"

"Wow! You like cinnamon too," she said. "That's so cool. I love cinnamon in my coffee."

Again, Jason had to chuckle at her enthusiastic response while he got his little jar of cinnamon and placed it on the table with a spoon.

"I know I'm probably upsetting your life by suddenly showing up like this," Emily said, adding the cinnamon but no honey. "But well, you write a lot about following your dreams and passions, that's one of the themes in your poems that I loved and I wrote a lot about that, also, your ideas and feelings about destiny, very complex but fascinating, how you think everything is random, things just happen."

Jason enjoyed hearing how thoroughly Emily had studied his poetry and how impressed he had been with her insights when they corresponded, but now she was in his kitchen, showing up out of the blue, acknowledging upsetting his life with her sudden appearance. At the same time, he kept looking at her slender body, her breasts more revealed as she leaned back in her chair, her nipples poking as he realized she wasn't wearing a bra. 

"Yes, destiny and randomness are big themes of mine," Jason said. "And you're right I do write a lot about how I followed my dreams, that's one of the reasons I'm here in the woods."

"Yes, I know," Emily said, looking at Jason over the rim of her coffee mug. "And that's one of the reasons I'm here."

"What are you saying?" Jason asked, sipping his coffee, glancing at the empty bird feeder, then back at Emily.  He glanced over at Oscar sniffing her back pack and computer case. "Are you saying you're following a dream?"

"Damn this is hard for me," Emily said. "But when I found myself fantasizing about you after writing all afternoon and sometimes late into the night and getting wet, having to masturbate, I couldn't stand it any more. I knew I wanted to fuck you."

Stunned, Jason didn't know how to respond to Emily's blunt and direct words but gasped at the conflicting feelings rising. Her honesty touched him, excited him as he acknowledged how sexy she was, how surprised to suddenly be seeing her, never having any idea that the woman who had been so professional and focused on her study of his work was so enticing. It never occurred to him, but now, after suddenly showing up and explaining why she was here, he wasn't sure what to do or say. All he knew was he was struggling to keep his erection from getting harder, feeling his arousal growing while realizing Emily was young and vulnerable and it would be wrong for him to let anything happen. She's young enough to be my daughter. He would have to control the situation and not let anything complicate his life. 




The Poet and His Muse



After an awkward silence, sipping his coffee, seeing Emily's eyes looking into his, their eyes meeting, Jason took a deep breath. "Emily, I'm too old for you. It would be wrong for me to take advantage of you," he said. 

"That's so stupid," Emily said. 

"No it's not. It would be a huge mistake. It was foolish of you to come all the way here with your sexual fantasy.  There's no way I would let that happen," Jason said, trying to ignore how her green eyes were looking into his, how her breasts were straining her shirt, how the feeling of her brushing his thigh awakened memories, how he was trying to ignore the stirring in his cock, the growing erection which he tried suppressing by crossing his legs.

"Jason, I know about you and all the lovers you had after your wife died."

"You do, how do you know anything about that?" Jason asked. "That's all gossip."

"You had a reputation. I interviewed some of your colleagues at Sarah Lawrence and at Bennington then you taught at the University of Boston and I know some of the professors who are still there who remember you and they told me lots of stories, off the record of course, since it had nothing to do with my dissertation, but that's how I know.

"Well, some of that might be true, not that it's any of your business, but that was then and this is now.  I'm out of that scene and have been for fifteen years. That's why I moved to Maine. My life was getting too complicated and I decided I wanted to write more than I wanted to have any more emotional turmoil. It got too distracting."

"Well, it also produced some of your best love poetry. I mean, your poetry is so erotic to begin with, so honest and your descriptions were so sensuous and subtle, so understated and suggestive that it made it really hot. And you know that, don't you."

"Emily, can we change the topic?"

"Why, what's wrong Jason?"

"Nothings wrong. I just think we should not talk about this. I am flattered that you feel so turned on by me, but it's ridiculous. You coming here thinking I'm just going to get in bed with you.  It's not that you aren't interesting and attractive, it's just wrong for me to take advantage of you coming all the way from Boston to fuck me. I won't let that happen."

"Well, I guess I goofed," Emily said. "Forget it. I made a stupid mistake following my fantasies, I'll deal with it."

"Good. That's sensible," Jason said. 

"I guess," Emily said, standing up, glancing down at her backpack and computer. She went to the window, looked at the flower boxes then out at the garden in front of the cabin, the raised beds lined with tree trunks, the flowers on the hillside, the bird feeders, the woods that surrounding the cabin.  She was quiet, thinking. 

Jason poured himself another cup of coffee then asked if Emily wanted more. She put up her hand, indicating she didn't.  The silence between them was awkward and he could see she was upset. Jason cleared his throat, took a sip of his coffee looking at Emily at the window, noticing how her dark hair went past her shoulders, the dangling earrings, the way her face shown in the sunlight, her smooth olive skin glowing, her snug jeans straining her ass. "She's really lovely," Jason thought and fought his urge to come up behind her and hold her, feel her soft skin, grind his hardening cock against her.    

"Hey I just got an idea," Emily said. 

"What?"

"Why don't I stay here for a day or two and work on my dissertation. You will be right here and we can discuss things.  Most of the time I would be working and not bothering you," she continued. "What do you think?"

 "I'm not sure that's a good idea," he added, realizing he might have difficulty concentrating on his work if she was working across from him or even in the other room. He also realized how risky it would be having her sleeping in the small room next to his. "I don't know, Emily, I'm so used to being alone. I'm not sure I want to have another person here."

"I understand, but I think it would really help me finish. My deadline is three weeks away and I still have a lot to do. I promise I won't be a distraction except when we're discussing your work. You won't even know I'm here.  I'm disciplined when I am working. You know that. Come on, let me stay," she said, putting her hands together in front of her as if she were praying.

Jason sighed deeply, something he frequently did, shook his head and closed his eyes, thinking about Emily's idea, knowing he should reject it, but then remembered his philosophy to say yes to whatever presented its self to him, to be open to the notion that what comes to him is God-sent. He often said that and wrote about it, though he wasn't certain he believed in God or any religion.  

"Okay, Emily," Jason sighed, shaking his head, exasperated by her pleading. "Okay, stay. I think it will be okay."

 "Really, oh wow," she shouted, her eyes widening and she wanted to hug him for saying yes, but didn't. "Wow!" she repeated, holding her hand to her chest. "I guess a woman my age shouldn't be saying wow," she said. "But it's one of my favorite words, I mean I'm not a kid, I shouldn't say wow. Sorry."

There's nothing wrong with saying wow," Jason said, chuckling at her exuberance and again felt her vibrant energy filling his cabin. "By the way, are you hungry? I know you were driving and probably haven't had breakfast. Do you want anything?"

"No, I had an apple in the car and I don't eat much in the morning and I don't want to bother you. I have raisins in my backpack and a chocolate candy bar, I'm addicted to chocolate, but I do like to cook, I'm passionate about cooking and if you will let me make dinner for you tonight, that would be my way of saying thank you for being so nice and letting me stay here."

"I didn't know you liked to cook. I hardly know anything about you, but that sounds good except I don't know what we have. I haven't been shopping for over a week," he said. "There's lettuce and spinach in the garden but that's about it. It's still early."

"I'll figure something out, Jason and I know you don't know much about me, but you're going to find out, I'm a lot more than a kooky graduate student, but, like I said, I promise I won't bother you. I'll just do my work while you do yours, then later, I will make us dinner, you'll see and I promise you, your tongue will throw a party for your mouth."

Again, Jason laughed at Emily's way of speaking to him, no longer feeling upset that she just showed up unannounced but was enjoying her lively energy, the way she looked directly in his eyes when she spoke and how beautiful she was, how petite and though she said she came here to fuck him, there was nothing teasing or flirtatious in her manner. Still, he found her presence alluring, her passionate way of speaking, her breasts straining her shirt, her jeans snug but not tight and instinctively knew that she was bringing something into his life that he had been missing for a long time.

"So where can I set up to start working and where will I be sleeping?" she asked, bending down to pick up her backpack and computer, petting Oscar who was laying on the kitchen floor, his dark alert eyes on both of them.  "You're a sweet little dog, aren't you Oscar," she said, moving her small hand down his back then standing up, "Lead me to my boudoir."

"Yes, madam," Jason responded, playfully then led Emily into the other side of his cabin, through a book lined room then to the small bedroom off of that with a skylight over the bed.

"Wow!" Emily said looking up at the skylight then threw her backpack and computer onto the bed. "What a cool room this is," she said, noticing the beam was a large tree trunk, the wide planked boards on the floor, the windows, the little side porch with railings made from long branches. "Your place is magical," Emily said. "I can feel the love you put into it," she added, pushing her hand down on the mattress to see how firm it was. 

"You can work at that desk," Jason said, pointing to an old green desk against the windows in the other room. She walked over to it, moving her fingers over the surface, looking around the room at the books filling the shelves with more books sloppily piled on top of them.  

"Jason, I can't believe I'm here," Emily said, looking at him. "It's beautiful. I think I will really be able to finish my dissertation here and that would be so cool, really, to describe how you live will add a lot."

"Interesting," Jason said, looking at her leaning back on the desk, her ass on the edge, his eyes trying to ignore her nipples pushing against her tight turtle neck shirt. "I never thought my cabin would become part of your dissertation," he added, feeling his attraction to her swirling through his mind, struggling not to think about how sexy she was even without her trying to be. She seemed so natural.     

"Will I be able to see any of the new poems you've been working on," Emily asked. "I think that would be of interest."

"I guess so. I mean, I have a lot of poems no one has read. I'd like you to read them. I've been writing mostly sonnets but I'm not sure it will help with your thesis. Isn't your focus on the origin of my imagery and what you called my suppressed romanticism?" 

"I think using your recent work will be sensational," she said, scrunching her eyebrows as if pondering a question she wanted to ask while also liking the way he was looking at her.  "Why haven't you tried getting your new poems published?"

"I tried a few times but I kept getting rejections, mostly form letters saying thank you, this is not for us, some not even signed. Occasionally, I receive a few written notes from editors I knew a long time ago--polite, friendly rejections. I'm just out of fashion now but maybe that will change. I don't know."

That must be so hard for you. I mean, you were famous. You won the Yale Younger Poets prize when you were twenty five and then the Pulitzer and The National Critics Award and they had a special on PBS with you being interviewed by Charlie Rose and George Plimpton interviewed you for Paris Review and now you can't get published."

"The important thing, Emily, is to keep writing no matter what. Maybe I will be rediscovered who knows. It's all fucking luck," Jason said. "Fame is fleeting. I have a line in a poem, "Beware of fame for she's a whore who will break your heart."

"Wow! What a great line." Emily said, looking up at Jason standing a few feet from her while she leaned against the desk, her eyes looking into his.

Their eyes met and Jason liked Emily's enthusiastic response, her green eyes sparkling, the way the sun shown on her dark hair made it glow. He wanted to hold her in his arms, sensed she wanted that too, but then turned and walked towards the other room. 

"Well, I'll let you be," he said, standing in the entrance to the other side of the cabin, "I'm going to get back to work. I'll see you later."

"Right and I promise I won't bother you. I have plenty to do. I'll get myself settled. I might have to come and fill up my water container but you won't even know I'm here," she said, smiling, nodding, "I'll see you later and remember I'm going to make you a great dinner."

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it," Jason said, before closing the door to that section of the cabin--a door he usually kept open but now thought best to shut so his concentration would not be disturbed, knowing how sensitive he was to sounds when he was writing.

She lifted her hand and made a small goodbye gesture, opening and closing her fingers, "Thanks for letting me stay," she said, "I'm really happy to be here."

"Good," Jason said, touched by the way she said goodbye, her small hand waving, her little fingers bending, the sincere way she expressed her happiness brought a warm, tender feeling over him and he too felt happy that she was here, marveling at how suddenly his whole life was being transformed. "I'm glad you're here, too," he said, surprised that he allowed himself to express himself in a way that sounded affectionate.

Sitting down at the table, he picked up his pen and glanced down at the page in his notebook where he had been writing, trying to recall the line he had been saying before the phone rang announcing Emily's arrival and suddenly it came to him and he wrote it down and found himself unable to stop writing as the next line flowed out from his pen and the next and the next. He was not struggling to write, the words just came, surprising him that he was able to concentrate on the poem and not think about Emily in the next room or the empty bird feeder or anything but the sonnet he was writing and suddenly, the poem was finished with a powerful couplet that surprised him. He read it over several times. 

                    And know that you control on every page,
                   a lovelier and more significant rage. 

Jason was thrilled with the sonnet and delighted how he found the poem pouring out of him, the rhymes coming effortlessly. He knew he was eager to read it to Emily later, suddenly thinking about her working in the next room and feeling the strangeness that she was here, writing about his poetry, a beautiful young woman who suddenly appeared. Sitting back in his chair, tugging at his beard, looking out at the trees that surrounded his cabin, noticing the squirrel on his window sill searching for any sunflower seeds that might have fallen from the empty feeder then suddenly remembered how he felt when her thigh accidentally touched his and he felt a bolt go through him, something that he tried to ignore but was aware that he liked, that it had awakened sensual memories in him, feelings he was now re-experiencing.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by a poem coming to him, jolting him.  He picked up his pen and began writing a new poem, inspired by the feeling of her touch. He couldn't believe how quickly he was writing, the lines flowing; the rhymes of the new sonnet coming easily and he wondered what was happening, he felt inspired. Usually, he had to labor over every line, cross out words, count the syllables, struggle to get the line right, but now, for some reason he could not explain, the words and lines just poured out of him and within a half hour, he was writing the last few lines of a poem he titled, "One Slight Touch.

I wonder, ignorant still, how, once 
our senses know, what force, what gay alarm
moves through the nerves, decides and instantly,
in one slight touch, speaks out such poetry.

As soon as he wrote the last word, tears swelling inside of him, a feeling that always swept over him when he knew he had nailed it and said what he was struggling to express. He also knew he hadn't felt that sensation for a long time and though most of his new poems were well written, successful sonnets, none of them brought the rare sensation he now felt when he finished these two new poems in a little over an hour.

While he was typing the poems into his laptop, copying them from his notebook, glancing up at the clock seeing he had been working for an hour and half, then heard the door from the other side of the cabin squeak open. He looked up and saw Emily bare footed, tiptoeing past him at the table and into the kitchen. When their eyes met, she said, "Sorry, I just need to get some water."   

"It's okay, I'm just typing up these sonnets, I'm not writing, you're not disturbing me," he said, glancing at her clear plastic water bottle.  

"Good. I don't want to disturb you but I drink a lot of water," she said, holding up the empty container. 

"Its fine," Jason said and went back to typing while Emily went to the sink to fill up her bottle. After typing a few words, glancing down at his note book, he looked over at her holding the bottle under the faucet while looking out the window, again noticing her slender, petite body, the roundness of her ass in the snug jeans, her breasts, her long hair, noticing the dangling earrings, her small bare feet, felt something stirring. He saw the water was overflowing her bottle as she stared out the window then quickly turned off the faucet.  

"It's really beautiful here," she said. "I'm really getting a lot done. It feels good to work here." She paused, "How's the writing going?"

"Good. I just finished two sonnets," he said.

"Wow, really, will you let me read them later?" she asked.

"Yes," Jason said, realizing the sonnet he had written was inspired by her touching his thigh and suddenly felt reluctant, afraid he would be confessing something he wasn't sure he wanted her to know and quickly added, "well, maybe. I'm not sure. I sometimes like poems to rest a few days before I think they are really finished."

"Okay, I understand," Emily said, nodding. 

Jason was certain he saw a disappointed pout on her lips quickly replaced by her glancing at the laptop.

"So is that what you do, write your poems in a notebook then type them up," she asked.

"Yes," Jason answered, seeing Emily's expression change to one of fascination. 

"This is helpful for me to see how you work. It's interesting. I mean I've read everything but now I can see the process," she said, nodding.  "Have you always worked this way?"

"Well, years ago I used a typewriter. I just started using this laptop about three years ago, but yes, I always write in a note book before typing them up.  I keep all of my drafts and I have all of my old notebooks somewhere," he said.  

"Wow, I wish I could see your notebooks, that would help my dissertation," she said. "It would help me with tracing your use of imagery from your earliest poems."

"Well, you have the poems. I'd rather you not see the mess of drafts and revisions," he said. 

She then looked down at his feet and laughed.

"What are you laughing at? What the hell is so funny?" 

"You're wearing one grey sock and one blue sock," she said. "And your shirt is on backwards, did you know that?"

Jason looked down at his feet, noticing she was right. "Oh, yes, well, I guess you could call it a mixed metaphor," he laughed. "I'm more precise about the syllables in a sonnet than what I'm wearing."

"It's cute," Emily said then took a deep breath. "Listen, I'm having a problem with one of your poems from your first book, can I get it and see if you can clear something up?" She paused, "Would that be bothering you?"      

"No, I'd be glad to help," Jason answered, looking up at her, enjoying how earnest she was, how quickly she went from being light to being serious. 

Emily dashed into the other room and came back with his first book, A Patch of Grass.
She moved her chair closer to Jason, opened the book and Jason could see all the words underlined, little question marks and scribbles in the margins.  "It's the title poem," she said, opening to the page, "And I am like a patch of grass between the cracks of sidewalk," she read. "Tell me about that, why that image?"

"That's from a long time ago," Jason said, feeling Emily sitting next to him, the book opened in front of them on the table, her arm touching his, the smell of her hair distracting him for a moment as they both looked at the poem. "That's one of my earliest poems."

She looked up at Jason, noticing his blue eyes, her arm and thigh against his arm and thigh as they sat close, hovering over his book. "I know it's one of your early poems, but you made it the title of your book, why did you do that, I mean, why is this poem so important to you?"  

Jason noticed how she was looking into his eyes and noticed her blue green eyes, her lips as she spoke, her smooth olive skin, finding himself distracted by how pretty she was, how sweet and serious she was, the feel of their bodies lightly touching. 

"Well, that's what I felt at the time," he said, trying to concentrate on her question, "I felt insignificant, like a weed growing in an indifferent world but struggling to grow and live. I saw the patch of grass between the cracks in the sidewalk as heroic, I think."




The Poet and His Muse



"You have a lot of images like that," Emily said, her eyes looking at Jason as he spoke then suddenly blurted, "Wow, you have such a twinkle in your eyes."

Emily's sudden statement startled Jason but what surprised him more was when she suddenly moved her lips to his and kissed him.  Jason's first response was to pull his mouth away, but couldn't, her lips felt so good, so soft and he knew this moment had been building since she arrived and though he tried ignoring why she said she came there, he also tried denying he found her alluring, tried shoving aside the way he felt earlier when her thigh brushed his, how it became the subject of his new sonnet, how her lips felt like dew on the morning grass absorbing the sunlight, getting warmer and he suddenly found himself returning her kiss, feeling her lips, feeling his tongue wanting to open her mouth and find her tongue but suddenly stopped, pulled his mouth away. 

"We can't. This is wrong," Jason said. 

"No it's not," Emily said. 

"I can't let this happen. I can't," Jason said.

"But you want it too," Emily said. "I see how you look at me. I can feel your desire for me. You don't know me very well, but I know I am meant to be here. You told me you just wrote two sonnets and you know it's because I'm here. I'm right, aren't I?"

"This is crazy," Jason said.  

"No it's not, Jason, your poetry brought me here. It was bringing me here ever since the day I found your book in that old book store. It's what caused my old boyfriend to feel jealous and leave and why I had fantasies of you."

"I don't believe this is happening," Jason said, hearing her words, feeling her intensity, feeling her hand reaching for his face, cupping the back of his head, pulling him to her lips, kissing him harder, awakening in him desires he had been fighting and now his lips met hers and he knew he wanted nothing more than to devour her mouth, open his heart and accept, even at his age, what she was offering him. He loved how their tongues felt swirling madly, his bulging cock growing hard, needing to be free of his jeans when she suddenly moved and straddled his legs, their arms around each other as they kissed, her breasts crushed against his chest, his hands moving to her ass, their bodies grinding harder, her jean covered pussy humping him as their intense lust grew hotter when he suddenly lifted her and they stood by the table embracing each other, kissing madly before moving to the long green couch on the other side of the room where she pulled him down on her body, her legs spreading to welcome him and they felt each other's desperate desire to express what was causing their hearts to beat faster, their breath to rise, their passion to take them to the ecstasy they craved like hungry animals needing to satisfy their most primal need. And that's what happened when they frantically undressed, tossing their jeans and shirts and Jason entered her with what started off gently but ended with both of them screaming at the top of their lungs as they both exploded in overwhelming orgasms that made them know that her sudden arrival that morning was a gift to cherish and accept.

Emily made a delicious dinner that night, finding several cans of tuna in the pantry, onions, eggs, noodles, bread crumbs and made a delicious baked casserole she served with a salad of lettuce and spinach from Jason's garden and a simple oil and vinegar dressing.  They lit candles, drank two bottles of red wine, talked about their lives, Emily loving how Jason talked about his four children, how when his wife died at forty seven of cancer, though they were divorced, he was there on her death bed at the end, how tears came to his eyes when he remembered her dying words, "Daddy's here."  She told him about her mother, how her father left when she was three and he never saw or heard from him, how she married when she was twenty and was divorced at twenty three, how she traveled, worked at various jobs before going back school for her doctorate and here she was finishing her dissertation on the poetry of Jason Petrov.

Eight months later, Jason's collection of sonnets, The Hungry Heart was published to rave reviews in the New York Times and other papers. Emily went with him on his reading tour to a dozen book stores across the country and his book was on the short list for the Pucker Brush award. After the tour, they returned to his cabin where Emily has been revising her dissertation, turning it into a book about Jason's life and work while helping him in the garden. They took long walks with Oscar, sat on his porch watching fireflies, listened to music. She loved when he read her a new poem. They made passionate love, sometimes in the afternoon, always late at night and first thing in the morning. Jason was writing the best poems of his life, sonnets, villanelles, and more and more free verse, poems that flowed from him like never before, he knew, because of her.