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Might Have Been Ch. 01

By: Ironiclaconic



Author's Note: I first published Might Have Been here almost two years ago. While it was one of the top-ranked stories on the site at the time, I didn't feel it was what it should be. I had published each chapter as I completed it, preventing me from setting up themes and conflicts when they occurred to me while writing later chapters. I therefore pulled it down for a complete polish. This version meets my vision -- it is more complex, befitting an attempt to turn it into a full novel. For those of you who loved the story the first time, I suggest a re-read. For those new to the story of Lance the multiverse-explorer, and the eight women from his past who rock his world, I hope you enjoy the ride. 

*

CHAPTER ONE



He's just a hero
In a long line of heroes
Looking for something
Attractive to save

– Liz Phair, Soap Star Joe

October 19, 2011

“Shut that fucking thing off!” Tasha used her pillow as a goose feather taco shell, protecting herself against the sound of an electric guitar impersonating an air-raid siren. 

An alarm set for the same time every day for five years eventually turns redundant. I had been awake for five minutes, watching her sleep – mentally tracing the outline of her spine through her satin camisole, pondering the futility of nestling my morning wood against her ass. I had allowed the alarm to sound by choice – part in punishment, part in hope for birthday sex, knowing full well my twin goals were in conflict.

My phone continued to serenade us with the alarm. All your dreams are made – when you're chained to the mirror and the razor blade. The Gallagher brothers were referring to cocaine addiction, but the lyrics meant otherwise to me. 

Tasha flailed her leg in protest against the unrelenting aural assault. “Lance!”

My pathetic gesture of passive aggression now acknowledged, I retrieved my phone from the nightstand and negated the alarm. 

“God, that's obnoxious! When are you going to change it?” Tasha hadn't opened her eyes yet. She had been complaining ever since I set Morning Glory as the alarm clock ringtone. 

I didn't answer, having resolved to keep the song until we next had sex – a compromise between my frustration and libido. Tasha curled up into a ball and tried to return to sleep. Does she not remember, or is she pretending not to remember? It could be either – she had a gift for both selective amnesia and bravura thespianship. Deciding it didn't matter, I rose from bed with a sigh to perform my morning rituals. Today would be just another day, and the prospect was a knife through the ribs.

Tasha shuffled out to the kitchen thirty minutes later, wearing her blue knee-length kimono, and a pair of fuzzy panda slippers. The pandas stared up her robe obscenely as she walked. The quirkiness of the slippers, and the sensual flesh-hugging of the kimono, reminded me why I still loved her. 

She inspected the refrigerator, judged its contents, and found them wanting. “You forgot to pick up more milk last night,” Tasha said, knowing by instinct I was having a positive thought needing banishment. Her voice dripped disappointment, telling me she expected nothing more or less from me.

“You forgot to tell me we were out,” I replied.

Tasha rolled her eyes and huffed as she sat down at the table, placing the Arts and Entertainment section of the Chicago Tribune over the birthday card I had received yesterday from my parents. I had left the card out on purpose, as a not-so-subtle reminder.

My long slow burn of resentment continued. Tasha knew, and intended to ignore the day. The last two times we had sex were on my last two birthdays, but she was spurning the chance for a trifecta. I regretfully eyed the smooth olive skin on her legs and ankles. Her right heel had fallen out of its panda slipper, and she bounced it absent-mindedly while she read, causing the panda to appreciatively hump her foot. It mocked me with its linty eyes. More than you will get today, asshole. 

Lucky fucker.

Tasha was always naked under her kimono, and I remembered the texture and slope of every forbidden curve. I suppressed the desire to stand her up and undo the sash – caressing each teacup breast prior to bending her over the couch and taking her the way she used to love, but I knew the likely responses.

I'm not in the mood.

You'll be late for work.

Quit mauling me!

My stomach is upset.

Pathetic as I was, I needed to jealously guard the few shreds of dignity I had left. I resolved to just leave for work.

Instead, I found myself standing behind her, kissing her neck and running my hands down her sides.

Tasha did a full-body flinch and dismissed me with a mere “ugh”.

I inhaled one last whiff of her hair, and muttered a goodbye, earning nothing from her but silence. The apartment door needed a good slam anyway, I decided, and I took my self-loathing with me to vent frustration on Chicago's rush-hour traffic.


∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞


Reverse-commuting offers little challenge or entertainment, and my imagination is my only carpool buddy on my drive to Batavia. For the thousandth time, I lived the fantasy of leaving Tasha. I say everything currently unsaid, and pack my bags. That part is easy. The true fantasy is her acceptance – that she doesn't respond with anguish and the threat of pills or slashed wrists. An alternate, darker, fantasy is that when she threatens, I don’t care. 

All your dreams are made...

In truth, my stomach churned at the thought of losing her. She needed me, and God-help-me I loved her. I had promised I wouldn't leave. I was better than all the other men in her life, and would honor that promise. She was testing me, seeking proof my love was unconditional, and could be relied upon. Eventually, she would gain confidence and feel the security she needed, and we could be a normal couple. 

That is what I had been telling myself for five years, but I was less convinced every additional morning I pulled away from the cold lover in my warm bed. 

The dreams of heroism that had once driven me, now reminded me of my failure. I was a poor substitute for a savior, but I was all she had. Abandonment wasn’t the answer. As futile as it might be, I had no choice but to try, finding whatever proof or sacrifice necessary to bring back the magic of our first six months. Five years of trying, and the solution eluded me, and the only proof I had found was that I wasn't as brilliant as everyone used to think I was.

Memory and fantasy were my only comfort – escapist templates, where I made better decisions, and avoided my current trap. These fantasies were my secret occupation during idle times – my only moments where I was the person I once thought I was. Sometimes my fantasy was Tasha herself – the Tasha with whom I fell in love. She was free of Black Moods and hate, loving and wanting me as she once did, but that fantasy also reminded me of how much I had failed her. To my shame, other women were easier to imagine. I told myself this was not a betrayal of Tasha – I accepted my disappointing, monkish existence, and I took responsibility for my own choices – but there was no harm in pretending. 

Infrequently, I fantasized about a failed relationship made right – Heather and I were better together, or Amara had been willing to cut her apron strings – but the memory of failure and bitter breakups made those fantasies more painful than pleasing. 

My favorite fantasies were women I never dated, but almost did – where time unfolds otherwise. I rewrite my life’s history with a better plot, hot sex, and a happy-ever-after. I notice the flirting, say the right words, or take a chance that only made sense in hindsight. At idle moments, such as my commute, I escape to them – my Might-Have-Beens – who have the perfection of potential.

Some days it was a random barista, or pretty pedestrian, who happened to smile when she glanced at me. Usually it was a woman I knew well, like Amber, or Courtney. Not today – today was my birthday, and as I drove west on I-88, I thought of Amy, innocence, and an unseasonably warm Midwestern autumn night.



∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞



Monroe was a corn-and-soybeans farming community an hour south of Minneapolis. Growing up, the town was a giant playground – we could play tag in cornfields or fish for walleye in the lake – but as I hit my teen years, the town shrank to the size of a small room, inhabited by me and my two close friends – Dave and Sarah. Fortunately, they made the small room feel less a prison cell, and more a studio apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side. 

Dave had been my best friend since kindergarten, when we recited whole scenes from the Star Wars movies while we were supposed to be napping. He was the only kid in school who could pace me academically. 

Our friendly competition forced excellence. In sixth grade, Dave discovered that memorizing logarithmic tables would let him do complex arithmetic in his head, and I rose to the challenge, until I was faster than he was. Later, I read about Eratosthenes's calculation of the circumference of the earth, and the two of us recreated the twenty-three-hundred-year-old experiment on subsequent summer solstices with two yardsticks, a level, a watch, and the odometer on my indulgent father's Taurus. Our final calculations were off by only a couple percent. During our sophomore year, Dave wrote a computer dating program that matched students based on their answers to questions. I hacked it to ensure all the girls I liked had my name appear in their top five. 

We each had an artistic flare – Dave loved to draw, and I loved to write. We created our own line of embarrassingly-bad comic books in third grade. In middle school, Dave would storyboard my movie scripts prior to us shooting them at the local parks, using his mom’s Sony 8mm camcorder.

Then came The Exquisite Sarah.

Dave had read The Iliad and was taken with Homer's use of epithets, such as “Swift-Footed Achilles”. He had a name for almost everyone in school. Some of his sobriquets, like “Dwayne The Impaler”, and “Sumbeech Carl”, were never spoken aloud in their subject's presence. Others, like “Scott the Hoople”, and “Red Madison”, were adopted school-wide. It was therefore no surprise that when Dave found a girlfriend, he gifted her with a Homeric epithet as well. The nom d'amour was always spoken as if it were her proper name, as in, “I'm watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer with The Exquisite Sarah tonight,” or “The Exquisite Sarah, would you please pass the ketchup?” 

At the time, I was so convinced Sarah exceeded her appellation that I missed my chance with Amy. I was in love with Sarah, and thought Dave the luckiest bastard alive.

My obsession with Sarah was a mistake – her breakup with Dave the summer after graduation had revealed her flaws. The film Out of the Past has a scene where one character is lusting after a femme fatale, and Robert Mitchum describes the object of desire as “awfully cold around the heart”. That was Sarah. Film noir dialogue excelled at describing lethality – “blue steel”, “a cookie full of arsenic” – and after I graduated from high school, I could never hear such descriptions without thinking of Sarah. After she devastated Dave, and I saw how she would have destroyed me, I counted myself fortunate, but neither of us had seen our danger until too late. You had to dig deep into the tundra of Sarah's soul to find the ice.

The Brothers Grimm described Snow White as having skin white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony wood. The first time I saw Sarah, she was a goth Snow White with bad hair. She had a china doll complexion, preferred cat eye spectacles, and wore too much mascara. Framing her face was a frizzy coal-black mane that spoke of a lost battle with a frayed power cord. While she favored a goth look, there was always part of her ensemble that was discordantly cheerful – one day it was a Hello Kitty purse, the next it was rainbow earrings, or a vintage ABBA concert shirt – none of which most goths would be caught undead wearing.

Halfway through our freshman year, and after her parents' divorce, Sarah had moved into our school district. She made a strong impression quickly, as she rebelled against any high school convention she could find. I first noticed her, a week after her transfer, when she was tormented in the hallway by Sumbeech Carl, who was a starting lineman on our varsity football team, even as a freshman. Carl mocked her clothes, and questioned her sexuality. 

She inspected him as if he were a new species of dung beetle. Sidney – a short redhead with an acne problem – happened to pass, and Sarah captured her in a tight embrace. “Mock us not, for we know the true passion of forbidden love. And no, you cannot watch.” 

Sidney shrieked and fled down the hall. Sarah condescendingly patted Carl on the cheek, and left him slack-jawed. I was stuffed in a locker for the mistake of not muffling my laughter. 

Most of her antics that year were less amusing. Sarah had disciplinary problems, and I often saw her in detention for cutting classes to catch a smoke, or for mouthing off to a teacher. She was the prime suspect by the police in a trashcan fire that risked exploding the chemistry lab. She was headed down a bad road, and I was therefore surprised when I saw her name on the tryout list for Guys and Dolls, the spring musical. I was even more shocked when they gave her a part.

All three of us were in the chorus. Dave and I loved the acting and writing, and continued to speak Damon Runyon-style dialogue through most of the summer. Sarah was different. She was captured by choreography. She eventually would collect artistic skills the same way I collected knowledge, but Sarah always came back to her true love – dance. That summer, she signed up for jazz dance lessons in Rochester, and was transformed.

By our junior year, her makeover was complete. The discipline problems vanished, and she was competing on the honor roll. She maintained her rebellious streak, but she chose her targets better. She would still mock the authority figures who displeased her, but they were never quite sure they were being mocked, such as when she told the English teacher that his literary selections were “daringly conventional”. 

Her physical evolution was just as profound. Contacts replaced her cat-eye frames, better revealing her blue eyes. Her previously unruly hair – now tamed by conditioner – became a black fractal wave cascading down her shoulders. Her goth-lite clothes stayed dark, but seemed to shrink, better displaying her new terpsichorean physique. Ratty flannel vanished in favor of snug shirts that exposed her midriff – flaunting a navel pierced with a red ruby, color-coordinated to match her favorite lipstick. She still wore too much mascara – giving her a hint of darkness, or cosmetic incompetence, depending who you asked. She had even learned Taekwondo – a school was next to her dance studio in Rochester, and she coordinated the lessons. 

Soon, she defined, rather than defied, the socially acceptable – the scandal at the art exhibition our junior year, her martial arts-inspired cheer-leading choreography, and her antics at the Halloween Dance. In many respects, she ruled the school. She didn't, however, have a boyfriend.

Sarah scared the bejesus out of most men. The bottom of Lake Monroe was rumored to be the graveyard of prospective suitors who failed to meet her expectations. Few had the courage to test the rumors.

Dave and Sarah took art together, and were paired on a project in December of 2000. They quickly bonded over a mutual contempt for most studio art produced since World War I, with particular revulsion for Duchamp, Kandinsky, and Warhol. They differed over the nature of the failure. I had joined them in the cafeteria while they were in mid-debate – the first time Sarah ever lunched with us. 

Dave possessed throwback Victorian aesthetics, and decried the loss of representationalism. Sarah detested “the focus on form and irony over emotionally-meaningful content”. They debated the cause of artistic morbidity and irrelevance, in the self-important and affected way that only young artists can. I let it continue for a while, and then asked if they weren’t saying the same thing. 

Sarah’s eyes opened wide in delight. “Darling!” She hugged Dave, and exaggeratedly pecked him on the cheek. 

Dave was equally theatrical. “Let us never fight again! I pledge my love undying!” Dave would talk that way – he would ask random women to run away with him to Paris, where they could dance nude on the banks of the Seine. A glint in his eye, and an inoffensive smile, usually saved him from being kneed in the groin. However, I could tell by the blush in his cheeks that this was different, and noticed Sarah didn't catch the lack of irony in his words.

The two of them threw around ideas for their art project. Sarah wanted it meaningful. Dave argued it should be political and environmental, then he stopped short, and looked at me. “Your protest idea. It’s winter now.”

“I'd forgotten about that,” I said.

“What protest idea?” Sarah asked.

“A Cunning Plan,” Dave explained. (We had borrowed the term from Blackadder, but aspired to better success.) “Last spring, Lance had an argument with Courtney in Chemistry, over global warming. Courtney being Courtney, she denied the whole thing. Then last summer, we were reading Calvin and Hobbes cartoons, and Lance had the idea for a practical joke we would leave in Courtney’s front yard.” Dave gave her the details. 

Sarah’s eyes sparkled. “I'm in. I always wanted to do guerrilla art.”

I was skeptical. It was too much work, and for me the concept was usually more fun than the execution. “Using Courtney’s front lawn for an art project? You won’t have a chance to get it graded. Courtney will destroy it seconds after she sees it.”

“I was thinking a diorama,” Dave suggested. “We could turn it in for class.”

Sarah was aghast. “A diorama? What are you, in fourth grade? This is no longer for art class. We can create our own project for that. I just want to do this, and I want to do it in front of the school. Life size.”

Dave was sold. “When?”

“Now. Tonight,” she said.

They both turned to me.

This sounded much better than a practical joke with Courtney as the only audience, and executing one of my Cunning Plans had the appeal of novelty. I nodded agreement, and the conspiracy was formed. 

Sarah quickly sketched out a task list with assignments and a timeline, and she fetched tagboard and brushes. Dave picked up lumber and paint. I brought the carrots, charcoal, and empty milk jugs. We met in Dave’s basement to paint the signs, and fill the jugs with warm water, then arrived at the school late, after the last activity bus had left. 

We sculpted our wintry army until well past midnight, then fitted them for battle with our signs, only taking two breaks for hot cocoa from Sarah's thermos, and another break for a snowball fight. The longer we worked, the more alive I felt. I had ideas like this protest all the time, discarding them as fast as I created them. I had performed experiments as a kid, but had lately thrived in an imaginative world, where brilliance was in the concept, not the creation. I had discovered the thrill in the reality that lay beyond the idea and its shadow.

Sarah and I worked on the sixth snowman, a burly soul whom Sarah had crafted into a recognizable likeness of Vice Principal Murphy – her nemesis for all things controversially artistic. I looked at Sarah, and realized she was the one to make this happen. Dave and I never followed through on our ideas. She had somehow provided the push. I smiled at her across a carrot nose. She winked at me, and I loved her, not knowing the wink was just in fun. 


Might Have Been Ch. 01



After admiring our work, we drove Sarah home, and continued to Dave’s house. “What do you think of her?” he asked.

“A thermodynamic paradox.” (Cool and hot at the same time – we were such geeks.)

Dave's smile reached his ears. “I think she is Exquisite.” I could hear the capitalization in his tone. “We are going out on Saturday.”

My heart sank in disappointment and envy. I congratulated him, not knowing Dave was heading toward a romantic doom that might have been mine. 

Despite my lack of sleep, I made a point of waking early, and I dosed myself with extra coffee, so I could arrive in time to join Dave and Sarah for our first joint art show. Students were greeted with a band of angry snowmen on the school lawn, carrying signs:

“Summer is a Liberal Lie!” 

“Fight the Summer Myth!” 

“If Summer is Coming, Why is Today Colder than Yesterday?” 

“Alternate Theories of Seasonal Change Demanded in Science Classrooms!”

“I Will Give You My Snowball When You Take It from My Cold(er) Dead Hands!”

“John 3:16”

A sign in the back announced, “This protest was brought to you by Lance, Dave, and Sarah.” Sarah and Dave had insisted my name be first, as it was my idea – although to me, it felt more like Sarah’s.

We collected the reactions of the student body. Sumbeech Carl extended his middle finger at us. Amber and Sidney, the Toothsome Twosome, smiled politely and complimented us, after which I heard Sidney explain the joke to Amber. Scott the Hoople complained we hadn’t invited him to participate. (Fat chance there had been of that – everyone except the police seemed to know he was the one who lit the trashcan fire for which Sarah had nearly taken the blame.)

The person whose reaction I most wanted to see pulled into the parking lot in a white Dodge Neon. I tracked Courtney’s progress up the sidewalk. She paused, curious at the crowd's behavior, then contorted her face in expressions of surprise, annoyance, and finally laughter. She searched for me, expecting me in the vicinity, and when our eyes met she flashed a sour smile and stuck out her tongue. 

My chemistry teacher from last year was effusive and thought it was worthy of calling Twin Cities media. A reporter for the Star Tribune did show up, but by the time he arrived, Courtney had organized a lunchtime demolition crew which pulverized the snowmen and destroyed the signs. The reporter had no story, we had only our pride and memories, and Courtney had invoked the eternal wrath of Dave, who bequeathed her with the unwelcome new sobriquet: That Bitch Courtney.

Still, the bond had been formed, and our duo became a trio. We became the heart of the college clique – the students who took the AP classes, dominated the honor roll, and populated most of the school's fine art and geek clubs. 

The more I knew Sarah, the deeper I fell. No one ever made me laugh more, or drove me to such feats of creativity. She was dating my best friend, so I never acted on my feelings, but Sarah still defined all high school romances for me. I would reject or ignore other girls, who were noonday stars obscured by the light of Sarah’s sun. 

Enter Amy, on my eighteenth birthday.



∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞



When I pulled into Dave's driveway at five o'clock, I heard an artificially deep voice from above, “Lance! This is God, Lance! I want you to stop masturbating!” After a sufficiently-dramatic pause, Dave jumped down from his large maple tree, hitting a three point stance borrowed from The Matrix. He had a black duster and combat boots that could have allowed him to pass for an extra in the movie, but the “Kiss me I'm Irish” t-shirt made it more ironic than imitative – particularly since he was Jewish.

“Quit projecting your own sins on poor, innocent Lance.” Sarah swung upside-down from the lowest bough of the tree, her blue silk blouse scrunching up to expose a toned, snowy stomach. I caught the glint of her ruby piercing, and gritted my teeth to steady the pangs of love and lust she reflexively drew from me. Sarah dismounted from the tree, crossed her arms, and cocked her hip. She held my eyes, and her lips formed a ghost of a smile, then she spoke again. “Amy, front and center!”

Amy was here? Amy stood from where she had been lounging on Dave's porch. She smiled and fidgeted. 

I didn't know her well and hadn't expected her to be joining us. She struck me as the sweet, innocent Midwestern type, which I typically found boring. I knew of her father from his rants against immigration to the local newspaper, and I had heard he was extremely protective of her, which I guessed was why she never dated. Amy had been orbiting Sarah close of late – nose stuck in a Harlequin romance novel, never saying much. I rarely deigned to notice the quiet girls – a sin for which I would pay this night. 

Amy would even the numbers, but I feared she would be conversational dead weight. We would either ignore her all night, or waste time explaining everything to her. I stifled my annoyance, let my Midwestern manners take over, and greeted Amy politely. When Dave and Sarah grabbed the back seat, I held the door for Amy to take shotgun.

We drove into Mankato to eat dinner at an Italian restaurant. I ordered a pesto that was heavy on garlic.

Bemused at my menu choice, Sarah shook her head, turned to Amy, and said, “You might want to inoculate yourself.” Amy ordered the pesto as well.

The conversation was a melange of banter and stories, including the recounting of Dave's Sit Down You're Rockin' the Boat miscue from the first Guys and Dolls show, where he lost synch with the rest of the cast during the alternating sit/stand choreography of the chorus, resulting in Dave continually popping up like a solitary prairie dog. Sarah challenged whether Dave and I could still improvise Runyonesque dialogue, asking just as the waitress brought our meals. I affected a gruff New York accent, and asked the waitress, “I do not suppose this fine disestablishment has a dessert menu that my companions and I could peruse?”

The stifled laughter from Dave and Sarah convinced the waitress she was being mocked in some obscure way. She sniffed and wordlessly fetched the requested menu.

I was apologetic to my friends. “I don't think I sold the line. I need a fedora and a pinstripe suit with a carnation in the lapel.”

“You really want to dress like a mafioso in an Italian restaurant?” Dave asked.

“Good point. I hear the Genovese family is trying to squeeze the Gambinos out of the stranglehold they have on the Mankato heroin trade. Next week, I could be wearing cement cross-country skis down to the bottom of the Minnesota River.”

“Wise man,” Dave commented.

“Wise guy,” Sarah corrected.

Amy moved her head like she was watching a tennis match, saying nothing. 

Next was Denzel Washington and Ethan Hawke in Training Day. I remember hoping Denzel would shoot Hawke in the head – I resented his scruffy facial hair and his sleeping with Uma Thurman. I was sitting on the far end next to Amy, where I couldn't talk to Dave or Sarah, so I leaned over to ask Amy whether I should grow a scruffy beard. She laughed and replied, “No, I think you're cute enough. You don't need an indecisive goatee.” Her hand touched my cheek. 

On the drive home, Dave and Sarah insisted on stopping at a park, which was deserted in the late hour. The night was warm for the middle of October, and earlier frosts had massacred this year’s crop of mosquitoes, creating a perfect Minnesota night. Dave waited for Sarah to put on her shoes, and the two of them immediately scampered into the woods. I watched Sarah’s shapely behind disappear into the brush with my best friend, leaving me alone with Amy, who sat down next to me on a granite boulder.

Amy just sat and watched the sky.

I hated silence. The movie was the obvious topic of conversation. “I think Denzel Washington is the best actor of his generation.”

“I liked that one with Meg Ryan and him in Iraq.”

“Courage Under Fire? It borrowed too much from Rashomon. The unreliable narrator technique gets old fast.”

“What did you think of Denzel in this one?”

“The guy deserves a Best Actor Oscar for other films, but this won't get it for him. It's a nice performance, but Ethan Hawke drags down every film he's in.” I glanced in the direction Dave and Sarah had vanished, trying to spot them.

“Did you see Ethan Hawke's slacker Hamlet?”

“We talked about going, but I was afraid of...” I stood up, striking a Shakespearean pose. “To be, or...” I paused, looked offstage, snapped my fingers in annoyance, and demanded, “Line!”

Amy laughed and applauded. She proved to be better company than expected. She may have demurred in groups, but she was chatty one-on-one. “You're so good in comedy. In Arsenic and Old Lace last spring, you were even better than Peter Lorre in the movie.” She earned more points for knowing the Capra film than for thinking I outperformed Lorre, which in my youthful arrogance I took as my due. 

I thought I heard Sarah's melodic laughter coming from the trees, and tried to detect her once more, to no avail.

Amy and I continued talking, and I became more awake to Amy’s physical presence. She was short, with a round face and a button nose, and kept her strawberry blonde hair in a bouncy ponytail. At school, she hid her body in sweatshirts and baggy jeans, which conveyed an illusion of plumpness, but tonight she had sworn off frump-wear, and sprayed on a tight, pink, scoop-neck shirt, that revealed a healthy bust and a trim stomach. With my sex-obsessed teenage libido, it was hard not to stare.

Amy's lovely rack made me think of sex, and thoughts of sex made me think of Sarah, and what she must be doing in the night-shrouded oak savanna behind us. Images flashed unwanted across my mind – Sarah going down, brushing back her hair to better display her skills as a fellatrix – Sarah bracing her arms against a tree, thrusting backward as she was skewered from behind, turning to give a ravenous kiss with her ruby lips. Did she moan or scream? I was somehow certain the minx talked dirty, with erotic wordplay yet another artistic medium in her repertoire. Penetrations, caresses, fluidic thrusts and a cacophony of climaxes strobed through my fevered teenage brain in a span of seconds, all spent staring at Amy's decolletage.

“What are you thinking about?” Amy had clearly noticed the attention I paid her chest. I felt the sick heat of shame and gave no answer.

Amy laid her head on the boulder serving as our makeshift sofa. Her ponytail pillowed, framing her face like a halo, resting inches from my hips. “You can tell me.” She stretched catlike, her arms reaching for the moonless sky. Her actions drew her breasts together and caused her shirt to creep up, exposing waist and navel. 

No piercing, I noted, once again comparing Amy to Sarah, and thinking of the ruby embedded in Sarah's smooth midriff. My shame deepened. 

Amy angled away from me, displaying the vale of her breasts, illuminated by starlight. She leaned her head back further to watch me. “You don't want to tell me?”

I had been fantasizing about her friend while I stared at Amy's cleavage. I was sure I had even licked my lips. She must believe I'm some kind of freak. “It's kind of personal and embarrassing,” I replied, hoping to change the subject.

Amy’s lips parted in a smile, undeterred. Her eyes were black pools in the starlight. “Oh yeah? That sounds interesting. Tell me.”

I admitted defeat. “Sorry, I was thinking of this girl. I apologize if I offended you.” Good manners save the day.

Amy's smile widened. “You don't offend me. What's the girl like?” Her hand found my knee, and didn't move.

“Beautiful, funny, smart.”

“Yeah?” Her fingers started rubbing my leg.

“Brunette. I think I have a thing for brunettes.”

Amy's hand left my knee, and she rose abruptly. I sensed a change in her attitude, but couldn't read much from the strawberry blonde ponytail staring at me. After a few seconds of silence, Amy shouted in the direction of Dave and Sarah's presumed love nest. “Hey guys, time to go!”

She milled around silently until Dave and Sarah ambled out of the woods minutes later. Sarah had a smirk on her face, fallen leaves in her hair, and a smolder in her eyes. She studied me, as if trying to read my expression, and then frowned like she had picked up the wrong book. I saw her exchange a glance with Amy, who rolled her eyes. Sarah resumed her eye contact with me, sighed, and shook her head, her porcelain face forming what I remembered as a bewildered sneer. 

We left the park. Dave and Sarah whispered and snuggled in the back seat. At one point, Sarah's bare foot kicked me in the head. Her giggled apology was the only word spoken to me during the drive, leaving me with no company but an awkward silence with Amy. We dropped off Amy and Sarah.

“So how did it go, man?” Dave asked as I drove him home.

“What?”

“Amy.”

“What about her?”

“You never made a move?”

“No, why?”

Dave laughed. “Amy has been crushing on you for weeks, begging The Exquisite Sarah to set up the two of you. This was it.”

“No shit? Why didn't you tell me?”

Dave shook his head. “You don't remember Mellifluous Mary?”

“Fair enough,” I answered. Sarah had wanted to pair me with another candy-coated friend of hers last month – a junior. I had feigned offense, insisting she was slighting my ability to get my own dates. That had been a cover – I had no objection to being fixed up, but thought Mary was a twit. Sarah had evidently determined the best method was to set me up and not tell me. 

“So what happened?” Dave asked.

“Nothing at all.”

Dave shook his head again, as I pulled into his driveway. “Well, happy fucking birthday anyway.” He punched me in the shoulder, then exited the car and walked into his house.

My knowledge of Amy's desire for me forced a reassessment. I had belatedly recognized Amy’s concealed charms, but now I considered the joy of our park conversation. Her smile had lit up the night, and I had somehow ignored her. I would have to fix the damage. Dave would never dump Sarah, so I might as well settle for someone who was less exquisite, but still acceptable. 

I tried connecting with Amy again over the course of my senior year. I didn’t respect her romance novels, but saw in them a quest for a romantic ideal that matched my own love of classical mythology, medieval folklore, and modern fantasy. We both liked movies, and I tried that as a conversation-starter. We both had caught Donnie Darko on different trips to Minneapolis, and were among the few in school who liked it. The more I knew, the more I liked her, but it was too late. The chance had passed. 

My mistake at the park had inoculated her against my charms. Flirting yielded nothing. The smile that lit up the night was a humorless grin when turned my way. Eventually, Amy dated Rodney Jorgenson, or “Rod The Mod”, as Dave called him – due to his beatnik haircut and the scent of cloves and pretension that hovered around him. Amy began to dress in tighter clothes, and flaunted it in my presence. She would glance at me, pointedly tongue Mr. Mod's mouth, and drive off on the back of his motorcycle. I never saw her again after graduation.



∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞



As I grew more experienced with women, my failure was obvious. Amy thought I was lusting after her, not Sarah, and rather than taking offense, she had liked it. I had slapped her ego and never gave her a reason to forgive me. My attitude toward her – that I was settling – was transparent. It was my fault. Given the limited opportunities provided by her overbearing father, this must have been her first date. She had worked up the courage with me, and my rejection had shattered her romantic ideals – sending her off with a poetic poseur. I had failed her.

The more I thought back on the night at the park, the more stupid I felt, and the more wonderful Amy had been. Not only had her smile lit the moonless night, her laughter was music, and every motion a ballet. The proud display of her body, coming from such an innocent, was a recurring erotic fantasy. 

Why had I been so blind? Sarah and I had never dated, and after the way she treated Dave I counted my blessings, and quickly cut contact with her.

Why had I focused on the superficially exquisite, cold-hearted Sarah, when a very real, wonderful woman had been throwing herself at me? How could I have not understood what Amy was offering? I had discarded the perfect simplicity of romance and innocence, and was now mired in the complicated, profane reality of Tasha.

What happened to me? Every time I relived that night ten years ago made me realize how much I had changed. While I had still been a fuck-up with women, I had the excuse of naivete. In every other respect I had been at my peak. I had developed a reputation growing up in Monroe – I was “that smart kid”, devouring grown-up books at age ten, and peppering my vocabulary with words I didn’t realize no one else knew. I inhaled knowledge, and possessed an encyclopedic memory half my teachers loved, and the other half feared – more than one had told me I was the brightest student they had ever taught, and that they expected greatness. Monroe had never birthed anyone famous, and I sensed the expectation I would be first. The only question was how I would distinguish myself – in acting, science, or politics.

My confidence had bordered on arrogance. At eighteen, I had been a popular geek – a contradiction in terms. How did I manage that in high school and college, while allowing my present life to turn into a cesspool of self-loathing?

I hadn’t achieved what everyone had seen as my potential. My career had peaked even as a lab assistant. I was competent, but on a dead-end career track. I had alienated all my friends one by one. They were driven away by Hurricane Tasha, until I was isolated and alone with a woman who hated me almost as much as she needed me.

Deep in my heart, I knew the answer. They had been wrong about me. I was never what they thought I was. My potential had been an illusion, destroyed by the flaws Tasha had since helped me see. I didn’t love enough. I didn’t try enough. I was a hypocrite pretending to care about the world, but only caring about myself. I hated her for that truth, but in my fantasies I was able to fool myself into disbelieving it.

As I drove out to Batavia, my eyes were fixed on the bumper of the car in front of me, alert for an unexpected brake light, but my mind was rewriting the night of my eighteenth birthday. I was with Amy, and her curves, kindness, and tentative achings of innocent desire. It was a pleasant illusion, where I was as clever, desirable, and honorable as I once thought I was.

My subjunctive nostalgia ended when I reached the campus. Fermilab was the premier physics laboratory in the United States, on the cutting edge of experimentation. Internationally, we had taken a back seat to the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland, particularly since our own Tevatron Collider was shut down earlier this month. We needed an experimental success, and we had high hopes for this next one. Today would be a busy day, as tomorrow was the launch.

Richard Feynman liked to say, “No one understands quantum mechanics,” which was a humbling thought from one of the great minds of the last century. The most confusing part was indeterminacy. A quantum particle behaves like a wave of probability, potentially existing in all locations and states allowed by the mathematical equation that defines its form. It is only when you try to measure it that the particle behaves “normally”, pinned to a single position and velocity, as if caught by surprise. 

What was the nature of that shift from the indeterminate to determinate? The Copenhagen Interpretation of Quantum Physics said the act of observation caused a “collapse” of the wave function into just one of its allowed states. This had been the mainstream view of quantum physics for almost ninety years. 




Might Have Been Ch. 01



It was not the only interpretation, however. Another, formulated by Hugh Everett in the 1950s, hypothesized that the act of observation didn't cause a collapse of the waveform. Instead each possible result of the observation actually occurred, branching off into its own universe. Everett called this the “relative state” interpretation, but in the sixties, more whimsical (or stoned) physicists renamed it the “Many-Worlds Interpretation”.

When I had studied quantum physics at the University of Chicago, “MWI” was presented as just a clever conjecture. In principle, there was no way to choose between the two interpretations. Without evidence, it all came down to aesthetic choices like which interpretation you thought was the simplest. While the Copenhagen Interpretation was dominant, and everyone talked about waveform collapses, rather than spin-off universes, the inability to disprove MWI was an unsolved problem, and we were about to solve it. 

One of Fermilab's resident geniuses, Dr. Nguyen, had devised a clever experiment that was supposed to banish the Many-Worlds Interpretation once and for all – at least that is what he said when he wanted funding. Christening the experiment “Project Everett” made a lot of people, including myself, wonder whether he was a closeted Many-Worlder. 

MWI reminded too many people of parallel universe stories from science fiction, where an evil Captain Kirk and an evil Spock-with-a-goatee rule the Enterprise with an iron fist. If physicists wanted to be taken seriously most felt compelled to pooh-pooh the notion in public. In private, however, the parallel universe aspect of MWI was part of the appeal. Most physicists were unrepentant sci-fi geeks – a virtue I shared.

I liked the concept of MWI. Human thoughts, after all, are just electromagnetic events occurring in a biological neural network, and are just as subject to the laws of physics as a flashlight beam. If MWI was correct, there would be an alternate universe for every possible decision we had made. That had obvious appeal for me, and fueled my rush-hour fantasies.

It was a beautiful lie – that there was an alternate universe where I had avoided the Tasha Trap and was happily living with Amy, or another Might-Have-Been. Why even settle for one of them? Maybe there was another version of me somewhere who had Natalie Portman writhing on his lap, demanding passionate, frenzied, weasel sex while she fondled the Nobel Prize in Physics the “Alternate Me” had just won.

Alas, the world devoured and shat out scientists who banked their careers on wishful thinking, and we all expected Project Everett to confirm Copenhagen and leave the Many-Worlds to writers of bad sci-fi. 

The innovation at the heart of Project Everett was something called the resonance array – a set of eight perfectly-shaped crystals, equally spaced in a lattice of carbon nanotubes, encased in a ring made of rare-earth alloys. A quantum waveform function was entered from a computer, which would then be generated by the array. Observations would be compared to those predicted, and if the Copenhagen Interpretation was correct, there would be a match with predicted values. If the MWI emerged triumphant, certain uncommon states would be seen more often than predicted. The array cost several million dollars – yttrium, high quality crystals, and custom-grown nanotubes weren't cheap.

It would take two years to run all the experiments and analyze the data, but tomorrow’s launch date was still a big day. I had been involved with the project for the past year, working on the computer models behind the experiment. I liked the project, and it had a cutting-edge glamor that beat my last project, where I helped shoot neutrinos at a mine shaft back in Minnesota. My task for today was to ensure the computer system was properly configured for the models to run correctly. That should have been only a few hours work, but as the day progressed, my team members kept changing the experimental parameters based on last-minute input from each other. Each change compelled another round of configuration and testing, and the resonance array was removed for each system reboot.

Dr. Nguyen hovered around the lab all day. When he wasn't wheedling for progress updates, he paced nervously. The image reminded me of an expectant father, and I asked him if he had a box of cigars ready to pass around for the birth tomorrow. His only response was a grimace. 

It was clear I wouldn't be leaving early. After the second round of changes, I swore off my final configuration until everyone else had left. I would work late, but this had the upside of making it unlikely I would see Tasha tonight, avoiding fallout. Tasha would be wallowing in guilt about now for ignoring my birthday. Whenever she felt guilty, she manufactured some grievance against me to balance her peculiar sense of karma. 

My team members checked in their work by eight, and left for the evening. Dr. Nguyen and I were the last ones in the building. He stood next to me as I started the final configuration. “How much time?” he asked.

“Two hours.”

“I feel bad making you stay this late.”

“It's no problem. You can leave if you want. I won’t go home until I'm done.” 

“Weren't you the guy who said this was my baby? What father leaves the hospital during the birth?” His face cracked a rare smile. 

I shrugged while running the necessary commands. “It's your choice, but I warn you I work faster without a boss watching over my shoulder.”

Dr. Nguyen understood. “Call me when you're done, or if the timeline changes.”

I grunted assent as I worked. Having written most of the software, I knew what needed to be configured, but the computer system required several reboots, and it was late, so I found myself having frequent downtime, with my only companion a 22” LCD screen displaying a Linux boot cycle. I killed the time by thinking more about Amy.

It was impossible to tell what path my life would have taken if I had accepted her advances that night at the park ten years ago, but I imagined a variety of romantic, social, and sexual events that never happened – a first kiss, words of love, the feel of her breast underneath my fingers, and heated sex in the back of Dad's Taurus.

I made the last configuration change and started the final boot cycle. Once this was complete, I could run a test.

Would Amy have followed me to college, or would we have made a long distance relationship work? I pictured her visiting me in my Chicago dorm room, with a sock on the outside doorknob signaling the desire for solitude. We would fuck like minks, working through the intellectual alphabet between sexual bouts – tonight the K’s, discussing Kepler, Kafka, and Kurosawa. I imagined turning Kepler’s laws of planetary motion into an erotic demonstration – my lips and tongue sweeping equal areas in equal time, with Amy’s nipple as the sun.

I ran the system through its final tests, and I glanced at the clock. It was just after ten. It was almost exactly ten years ago to the minute that my shot at Amy had misfired. 

The system checked out, and it was time to install the resonance array. This normally wasn't my job, but there was no one else around, and I had seen it done enough times that I knew the steps. I pulled the array out of its storage case and opened the housing to the power grid.

Amy's face rose once more out of my memory. In my self-flagellation over the years, I had long ago worked out the words I should have said. I grimaced in self-contempt – composing a romantic speech for a woman ten years lost was pathetic even for me.

As I set the array into its slot on the power grid, I simultaneously asked myself two questions.

When Amy had asked me what I was thinking, while we sat on that rock in the park, how would she have responded if I had given her the answer written in the crisp ink of hindsight? 

And...

After I finished testing the computer, did I remember to turn off the electricity to the power grid?

The second question was answered first by the audible snap of a voltage arc. There was a sharp pain in my hand, and I smelled the scent of ozone.

I stumbled into darkness.



∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞



October 19, 2001



Stars. I must have hit my head, but cranial-impact stars didn’t typically arrange themselves like Orion, much less make Betelgeuse the correct shade of orange.

“Lance?” It was a woman's voice, vaguely familiar.

The most jarring sensation was the change in environmental sounds. I didn't hear the whirring of ventilation fans that formed the soundtrack to our laboratory. Instead, I heard the wind rustling through desiccated leaves. I could also feel a cool breeze, and smell the dry decay of an autumn night in the woods. My clothes felt different, and I personally felt healthier. The electrical burn on my hand was now just a vague memory of pain, which I rubbed away.

“Lance, what were you thinking about? Are you embarrassed to tell me?” My head spun when I recognized the voice – huskier than I remembered – or else she was lowering her voice for effect.

My eyes adjusted to the night. Amy was lying next to me, her legs dangling from our rocky slab of a sofa. She was idly moving her left foot, playing footsie with the fortunate granite. Her pillowed ponytail supported her head. I noticed each of her ears was pierced by two rings of golden circles. Each ring just touched its partner without overlap, forming a sideways figure eight. Amy's earrings were serendipitously forming the lemniscate – the lazy eight – the mathematical symbol for infinity – as if advertising the endless possibilities before me. 

I drank in the sight of her, feeling dizzy. What the hell happened? I glanced down. I had lost the spare tire around my waist and was back to the swimmer physique I had kept until my mid twenties, when I forsook lap pools after Tasha complained about the chlorine smell and the time away from her. I was wearing the pair of cargo pants that had been my favorites back in high school, and there was a watch on my wrist – I hadn't worn a watch since I bought my phone, which I could no longer feel in my pocket. I clutched for it reflexively.

A dream? When I was dreaming, I never considered the possibility I was dreaming, so that seemed unlikely.

Perhaps I was dead, dispatched to a Hell where I was consigned to relive my failures every moment for all eternity. I didn't believe in Hell and didn't think I was a bad person, but Hell might not care whether I believed in it, and I considered that maybe the fundamentalists were right, and I was sentenced to Hell for my heathen ways.

My night-adjusted eyes were captivated by the sight of Amy's breasts, rising and falling in the starlight. No, a fundamentalist Hell wouldn’t offer the chance to peer down Amy's shirt again. A different kind of hell, maybe. Lutheran Hell? Maybe Presbyterian Hell wouldn’t deprive a wretched sinner a glimpse of an occasional heaving bosom as a diversion from the routine of brimstone baths and pitchfork stabbings. What did Presbyterians believe anyway? 

Say something...

The resonance array felt heavy in my hand – my only visual connection to the world I remembered – and things clicked together. I thought back to the theories that were behind our experiment, and what had happened just before I blacked out. Did I somehow time travel? Like any geek, I was a fan of Back to the Future, but the resonance array was an unlikely substitute for a flux capacitor, and I had no DeLorean. Could Everett have been right, and the Many-Worlds Interpretation true? Was I back at the point where the quantum waveforms diverged, and I could choose to follow another path into a different universe? It was no less crazy than a tit-populated Presbyterian Hell, and would be more appealing if true. 

Too appealing, cautioned my inner scientist – it’s suspiciously convenient, given I spent much of the day reliving this very moment. 

Say something...

Amy had sat up and turned onto her hands and knees, peering at me with concern. Her back was arched slightly, giving me a surely-unintended eyeful of her cleavage, which she accidentally emphasized by keeping her arms close together. Inadvertently, she was in a classic cheesecake pose, as if she had studied sexy by staring at swimsuit calendars. 

I could live with that.

She moved closer to me. “Lance?”

Bewilderment struggled with fantasy, and bewilderment lost. I put the array in one of the pockets of my cargo pants. I would worry about the details later, because right now I seemed to be having an impossible, on-second-thought-maybe-there-is-a-God chance for a do-over – or else a barn-burner of a comatose fantasy. Even if this were really Presbyterian Hell, I realized it didn’t matter. The only way to truly fuck this up a second time was to do nothing.

I thought of Tasha and felt a twinge of guilt, but I banished it. If anything happened with Amy, it wouldn't be cheating. Instead, it was just the way things should have happened ten years ago, long before I ever met Tasha. It was impossible to cheat on a woman I hadn't met, and it was no more wrong now than it would have been then, I rationalized. 

In the starlight, Amy’s eyes were the dark pools I remembered, and they drew me in. I called upon my long-neglected thespian skills – I was once again an actor reciting rehearsed lines from a script. “You know full well what I was thinking.” 

She averted her eyes. I couldn’t see her blush in the faint light, but I thought I could hear it in her sharp intake of breath. She had been growing frustrated at my lack of response to her displays and hints, worrying I was simply numb to her appeal – as I had indeed been ten years ago – but now I had responded, and I was bolder than she expected. I could tell this flattered and pleased her.

I raised my hand to steer her face back toward mine, stroking her cheek with my index finger. The tip of my thumb just touched her lower lip, which parted from its mate. She lightly wet her lips with her tongue, and she trembled. I had to suppress a similar feeling of my own. I was lightheaded from the impossibility before me, but the tantalizing touch of Amy's skin under my fingers kept me focused. She was warm and soft, craving more contact. My brain and flesh were responding to a ten-year-old fantasy brought to vivid, innocent life.

She was waiting for me. The man she had been chasing for weeks finally seemed to notice her, and she was caught in the anticipation of what I might do next. 

Say the words. I swallowed and spoke. “I was trying to understand why you've been wearing sweatshirts all through high school –  why anyone would hide such beauty underneath baggy clothes.” My eyes roved over her form.

Amy smiled and straightened her posture, unconsciously thrusting her chest out further toward me. Her eyes were wide, mesmerized by my words. The reality of what she must be feeling broke upon me. She was an innocent, self-conscious woman, doubting her own beauty, who had decided to take a chance and flaunt her body for the first time. She was being rewarded with the attention and approval she craved, and she drew closer.

Her proximity made me ache for her and the missed opportunity she represented. I could feel her warmth, hear her respiration increase, and smell the mingled scents of her shampoo and perfume – a floral intrusion of spring in the autumn night.

The stars. “I love looking at the stars. Normally they are the most beautiful things in the universe – yet tonight I can't stop myself from staring at you.”

God, I was laying it on thick. The words had sounded more romantic in my head, but when they left my lips they felt calculated – rehearsed. I imagined every girl I dated in college rolling her eyes and snorting.

Not Amy. Her face was beatific as she leaned ever closer.

I continued. “I'm with a woman who puts the glories of the heavens to shame. I'm truly lucky.”

The glow in her eyes banished my cynicism, and I realized I meant every word. She was as perfect as my imagination, and the hope she offered was indeed the most beautiful thing in creation. 

“You talk like something out of a romance novel,” she said.

Ouch. Then I remembered. “I've seen you reading romance novels. You like them.” At least, I hoped that was what she meant.

Her smile was shy. “I like the good parts.”

“Kisses in front of fireplaces, the fair maid swooning after being rescued from the swamps by the taciturn hero with piercing eyes?” She was a romantic innocent.

“Which ones do you read?” she teased. “Those are the type my mom had. I liked the way they talked, but they kept cutting out the sex, or they made it all flowery – stuff like referring to the girl's... you know... as 'the womanly center of her pleasure'. I liked reading people talk of love.” She acted shy again. “And I like the sex.”

I couldn’t say much to that. She was an inexperienced woman seeking what she has not yet had, but I didn’t think she would appreciate me pointing that out. “I thought they were all flowery and faded to black at each sex scene.” I remembered poring through some of my mother’s Harlequins as a porn substitute at age fourteen, and being disappointed.

“Some of them. All the old ones are like that. I don’t like them much. You know how we studied storytelling in Mrs. Johnson’s class last year, and it was about conflict, reversals, climax, and denudement?”

Denudement? Oh. “Denouement.” I overemphasized the French “mah” pronunciation at the end, and felt like a pompous prick. I had mastered my memorized lines, but my improv was weak.

“Riding off into the sunset isn’t enough,” she said. “I hate it when a couple gets together, and they don’t show the climax of sex.”

“So to speak.”

“Huh? Yeah. Did you see Titanic?” Amy was really hung up on romances. She must have built up this entire idea of what a perfect romantic night would be. I had ruined it for her ten years ago, but would give it to her now.

“Never heard of it.”

She nudged me in retaliation for my pretense. “You,” she said, dropping her voice at the end, turning the single word into a complete sentence. “Anyway, cutting the sex is like if they cut away from the sinking ship and just showed her after the rescue.”

Tasha had once said something similar, and I hadn’t agreed with her either, but revisiting the issue with Amy would further damage a mood already in jeopardy. How to get this back on track? “I promise if I ever write a romance, I won’t skip the good parts.” 

Amy laughed and playfully touched my arm. 

That was more like it. “No man alive has ever had a better birthday,” I said honestly. 

“But I didn't get you a present.” She took the bait in my last sentence, and her eyes shifted toward my lips. She leaned in, mouth open, holding her breath.

“I'm sure you will think of something,” I said in a low voice I hoped would sound suave. Her face felt flushed and warm in my hands as I drew her in for the magic of a first kiss. She was gentle but assertive. Our lips met and danced, and I felt her tongue tasting mine. She probed into me, wanting more. For years, romance novels had been her only sexual outlet, and she finally had a chance to live the real thing. She was overwhelmed by the excitement of discovery and leaned forward, pursuing my mouth. 

Her surprising aggressiveness toppled me off the rock. So much for suave.

Amy tumbled on top of me, laughing kindly to dispel my embarrassment. She gave my lips one more taste, this time accompanied by a grind of her hips against the swelling in my pants.

My celibate existence with Tasha made my Amy fantasies sexual, but not plausibly so. Amy was a virginal girl, and this was her dating debut. I felt a surge of pride that my speech had driven this chaste girl to such obvious arousal.




Might Have Been Ch. 01



Amy stood and glanced around the park. Reassured we were still alone, she grabbed my hand and lead me into the seclusion of the trees, perpendicular to where Dave and Sarah had sequestered themselves.

I stepped carefully through the woods, mindful of its hazards, delighting in the warmth of Amy’s hand. Tasha's romantic rebukes this morning still stung, and the contrast with Amy's open desire raised feelings of vindication, rather than guilt.

Amy pushed me against a large oak and pressed the delta of her skirt against my upper thigh, as she kissed my neck. A soft “oh” escaped her mouth. She was rubbing the womanly center of her– she was rubbing herself – against me, the closest contact with a man she had ever experienced. The new sensations released passions she didn't know she possessed.

Enveloping her lower back, I lightly stroked the exposed skin beneath her shirt. I always felt that having my hands around a woman's waist was the ready stance of sex, offering choice and control. From that perfect placement, my hands could move down the curves of her hips and thighs, rove toward her breasts, or pull her close to press firmly against me – or I could just keep my hands on her waist, feeling the intimate soft heat of her skin. I was lost in the thrill of just holding her in my arms and having such miraculous choices.

Amy leaned back and her fingers slipped to my fly. She had a challenging, sly glint in her eyes as she undid my belt and pulled down the zipper. She kissed and bit my lips, to better feel the expression on my face as she freed me from the confines of my pants.

This woman was a wonder. The best I had ever realistically imagined for this night was brief contact with her breasts before she moved my hands away. On first dates with virginal Midwestern girls, stop signs at second base were as expected as a curfew from the girl's father. I must have driven her beyond the point of self-control – or else her reading materials had inspired her own romantic fantasy, which she was now enacting. 

“I promised you a birthday present,” she whispered while she worked my pants and jockeys down. She knelt at my feet, and I denied any possibility of even a Presbyterian Hell when I felt the tender warmth of Amy's mouth envelop me.

God, it had been so long since I had felt the touch of a woman's mouth there. Tasha had given up even pretending she liked giving head four years ago. The leap from the memory of Tasha's ice to the reality of Amy's hot enthusiasm sent a chemical shock through me, and I almost shamed myself by coming immediately.

This was Amy's first time, but she must have practiced on some lucky produce from Cub Foods. A frenzy of kisses and licks fluttered up and down. Just when I was convinced she had exhausted her repertoire, she shifted to consume me as she would a popsicle – lips fully encircling me. 

The hot stroke of her mouth, the slight chill of the autumn breeze, and the impossible culmination of ten years of fantasies were liquid fire to my senses. I watched her tongue tease the length of me through her smiling lips, and could do nothing but moan encouragement. 

Amy's smile broadened in satisfaction at my response. She had gleaned tips from her books, practiced on produce, had finally tried the real thing, and discovered she had a gift for it. Her oral ambitions validated, she took most of my length into her wet heaven and began humming “Happy Birthday”.

That does it. “Oh God, I am...” I groaned in fair warning. Half the female population can't stand men coming in their mouths. That discovery had been expensive, ruining several otherwise excellent evenings. Amy, however, took it as her cue to hum louder. She was hitting the last verse and slowed the tempo, while her lips and mouth tried to inhale me into her larynx. My head spun, I shut my eyes, and my hips matched the cadence of her fellatial caresses. I circled her face with one hand as she stretched out the last note into one long hum-syllable. My other hand formed a fist and pounded the bark of the innocent oak tree at my back, and I erupted into her hungry mouth for the remaining duration of her last note. 

Spent and euphoric, I collapsed against the tree.

Amy rose, lifted her arms, and performed a combination curtsy and bow. “How did I do?”

I lolled my tongue in an expression of extended rapture.

She suddenly acted self-conscious about her actions. She covered her face, averted her eyes, and peeked back at me as if seeking approval. I could imagine the conflict within her – shame, lost innocence, and a sense of sin fighting with arousal, romantic idealism, and rapture. I could tell she needed words as absolution. “You amaze me. The best birthday present I could imagine.” 

“I wanted your first time to be special,” Amy said. She extracted a Cinnamon Tic Tac from the depths of her purse and popped it in her mouth.

My first? I remembered getting head from seven different women – well, eight now. My first time was an inexpert attempt by Heather at one of Dave's parties – an oral mauling that left me covered with hickeys and caused me to swear off fellatio forever. (I had kept that promise all of three weeks. Heather wanted another try while sober and redeemed the act of oral love). 

Then I understood what Amy meant. I had not graduated yet in this... (I grasped for a word – “timeline” had the mildewed smell of old pulp science fiction magazines, but it worked) ...in this timeline. Here and now, I had just started my senior year of high school and was technically a virgin again, just like her. “How did you know it was my first time?” 

“Sarah,” she said.

Sarah? I never told Sarah or Dave about my sexual experiences, or lack thereof. I had always been private about sex, much to Sarah’s annoyance. But Sarah knew all of my high school girlfriends, and with her skills in social interrogation had likely wheedled it out of them. Bitch. 

Amy's saliva was quickly evaporating from my skin in the dry autumn air, causing a chill in my loins. As I redid my pants, I saw a flash of disappointment cross her face. She had brought me to climax, but had received no joy herself. She wanted more. Romance required reciprocity, and so far I had given little. So far. 

I reached out to hold her, and Amy backed into my arms. The unreleased tension of her desire incited her hands, and she ran them over the length of my thighs, pressing against my own warmth. How far was she taking this? Folding my arms around her, I was filled with a sense of hope – an alien emotion to me since my earliest days with Tasha. Was I going to stay here? Could I? 

At the thought, a sudden dissonance broke my euphoria, as if I awoke one morning realizing I had come home to the wrong house the night before, and had slept in a stranger's bed. This wasn't me. This wasn't my life. My fantasies were vacations from Tasha, not real escapes. This woman in my arms was a seductive trap, distracting me from my responsibilities.

Amy stifled my unease, leaning back to kiss my neck while her hips writhed, demanding attention and response. She tickled my inner thighs and pressed her curves against me. I was pleasantly surprised by the short duration of recovery I had needed – it was fun being eighteen again.

I kissed Amy's neck, nuzzling under her ponytail and nibbling toward the back of her ears – my hands enfolding the convex slopes of her breasts. 

“I have wanted to do this since June,” she said, her hands squeezing me through the fabric of my pants.

“Yeah? Why June?”

“You don't remember? You gave my little brother Jack swimming lessons this summer. I would watch you at the pool. I could have sworn I saw you watching me.” She paused and I sensed a smug grin. “A lot.”

Of course. Jack Attack was one of my favorite swimming students. He was cute, hyperactive, and wanted to be the best swimmer in his class. He reminded me of me, and I once lifted him onto the lifeguard stand during open swim. His eyes scanned the pool with an intensity I thought adorable. I caught hell from my boss, but it was worth it. “You were the Mysterious Sexy Sister!”

“What?” Amy moved her hands on top of mine, encouraging any and all contact with her flesh. 

“A Dave-ism. Jack's sister was the subject of much speculation. She – you – always wore shades and a sun hat, so we never saw your face, but your swimsuit showed a hell of a body. You always sat in one of the sunbathing chairs shortly after classes started, and you left when they ended, so none of us ever had a chance to talk to you.” 

She laughed, then cooed as my hands slid under her skirt. “What did you notice?” Amy asked, eager for more validation of how hot she had been. No wonder she had been so aggressive tonight. I had thought her romantic ambitions toward me were only a few weeks old, but she had been stoking these particular fires since early summer.

“You liked to wear this sky-blue string bikini top, with a floral wrap around your hips. The bikini top was spandex triangles. You never showed much of your legs, but we could imagine.” Such imaginings were now obsolesced by what my hands were doing as they moved under her skirt. 

Amy's breath was hot against my neck as she parted her thighs, inciting me further. “You did notice me!” She was rising and falling from her tip-toes – keeping beat to some 50's-era torch song, resulting in steady pulses of friction. “But I was talking about you,” she purred. “You were so sweet to Jack, and I kept hearing from everyone how smart you were, and I was curious about you. Did you know, when I took a computerized dating test at school two years ago, you were number three on my list?” Her flesh opened to me as I touched her through damp satin fabric. 

“The computer must have thought I was charming.” My eighteen-year-old self would have been fumbles and sharp edges. I was determined to make Amy’s first sexual experience a mind-blowing one, drawing on ten years' worth of sexual activity with women who had all been prelude for her.

I lightly teased Amy's satin-clad flesh, and a soft panting emanated from her mouth. Her tip-toe motions stopped, and she spread her legs, while the cadence of her hips shifted from a torch tempo to swing time. Amy shuddered and sighed. Her neck swanned toward me, and I met her open mouth with mine. I collapsed against the oak tree, bringing her to the ground with me. 

Her hands worked frantically at my belt, demanding me. Yes, Amy, this is how good it can be for you...

“Please...” she said, once my pants were undone, and she started to pull her shirt over her head. I tried to help, but accidentally pulled in the wrong direction and heard a quiet tear of fabric.

“Um,” I confessed, “I think I ripped your bodice. I thought a romance fan like you might appreciate that.” Her convulsions of laughter added delicious friction.

I guessed at the desires she could not express and moved to free her breasts from their sartorial prison, revealing them to the stars. I looked up, and saw Rigel and Betelgeuse as a pair of mismatched eyes blinking down in appreciation as I squeezed the apex of a breast between thumb and forefinger.

Amy's mouth opened wide. She gasped and began licking my upper palate. She had never felt sensations like this and could only follow primitive instinct, which must have told her to reach into my cargo pants, and return the favor.

 “What do you want, Amy?” I asked.

She pivoted, presenting me with her topless form. Her youthful pertness reminded me of Amy’s age, and I felt a pang of conscience over whether I was taking advantage of an eighteen-year-old girl. Twenty-eight wasn't ancient, but it was old enough. I knew mothers' tongues would cluck if I showed my real age, and if my twenty-eight year old self appeared at Amy’s doorstep, I was certain her dad would have fetched the shotgun he was always threatening to use on errant Mexican migrant workers. 

Such thoughts were driven from my head when she pressed her nipple into my mouth. Amy leaned hard into me, and her hands pulled at my pants. “This is what I want.” Her voice was a sensual growl. She had placed her cleft against me, and the feeling exulted her.

I moved my hands to brace her shoulders, and the scent of her arousal on my fingers was maddening. I felt a coldness on my groin from the night air, and I realized she had removed my jockeys with my cargo pants. How far was she going to take this?

She answered my unspoken question. “I want you. I have wanted you for months. Please... inside me,” she requested. Amy removed her panties while ensuring her breast never left contact with my lips or tongue. She sat astride me, and I was embraced by a wet heat. She sighed, losing herself in the pleasure of raw contact. She had never had a man this close before, and she could not prevent herself from taking what she wanted.

“I didn't bring protection,” I murmured between kisses. Always the gentleman, terrified of accidental fatherhood even in alternate universes. I knew this was a token resistance, however. The feel of her against me destroyed my will. I offered to sacrifice a condom on the altar of Trojanus, the Roman God of Contraception, if he provided Amy with a solution.

“Don't worry... pill,” she said. 

Trojanus would get his offering tomorrow – not bad for a god who hadn't existed thirty seconds earlier. 

I entered her, incensed by her torrid embrace. Her head tilted, and I watched her silently howl at an invisible moon. Her hips convulsed, and I noticed goosebumps rise on her breasts as I nuzzled them. I liked noise from women during orgasm but was prepared to forgive her silence, given the compliment she was providing of having an orgasm upon first penetration. What greater first sexual experience could there be? However, Amy had another surprise in store. The noise began as a low keening, and it increased in volume as she pistoned her hips, rubbing herself against me, and taking me as far inside as she could. My hands descended from their perch on her lower back, and I pulled myself to her very depths. 

Her keening crescendoed, becoming a wailing police siren that pierced the night. The sights, sounds, and sensations of her orgasm elevated me to the same heights. This was the downside of having eighteen-year-old hormones again – I was only lasting a minute on my second orgasm of the night – but Amy was so warm, tight, and real – my ten-year fantasy was outliving my wildest expectations, and I could no more stop myself than stop a hurricane.

Tasha and I had practiced Tantric control exercises when we were first dating, but all those lessons were forgotten now, dispelled by an orgy of sensual distraction. I felt my own explosion build and detonate deep inside her. In response, Amy's wailing rose even louder than before. 

I knew the insects in the woods had been killed by autumn frosts, but when Amy finally stopped screaming, it sounded as if the forest itself had been holding its breath to listen.

Amy rolled her eyes back in her head in an expression of exhausted ecstasy and collapsed in my arms, able to utter nothing but a sigh.

A rustling to the left caught my attention. Something was moving through the bushes, and it shifted a rock, or a fallen tree. It was night in a rural park, so it was probably a raccoon or a deer. Amy didn't seem to notice.

We lay connected together. I touched her naked skin, feeling the sweat evaporating from a shallow pool in her lower back. I feathered the sides of her breasts and savored the warmth of her thighs, and the searing, gentle grip she had around me. 

My touch induced wonderful aftershocks in her. She must have had similar feelings – her first time with a man, the feel of a strong presence both without and within her – a night that had been perfect, the way it had been meant to be. 

This. This is how love was supposed to be. Euphoria. Ecstasy. Romance. I had missed it, and didn't want to return to Tasha, where love meant self-hatred punctuated by moments of sheer terror. This moment with Amy was nectar and ambrosia. Years of sexual rejection had whittled me down deeper than I knew, and the realization of what I had lost, and now found, filled me with hope. I had driven an innocent, inexperienced girl so far into the throes of lust and longing that she couldn’t help herself. She must have seen something in me Tasha didn’t.

Tasha. She was a gnat buzzing my subconscious with guilt and a feeling of betrayal. Would it matter if I never returned home, instead staying in this fantasy timeline, leaving Tasha to face her demons alone? 

Dave's voice shouted in the distance. “Lance, Amy?” It was coming from the direction of the car. “Olly olly oxen free!” Hide and seek was done, and it was time to return to base.

We dressed and walked toward the car, drunk on sexual release, stumbling through the brush. I surveyed the forest, trying to memorize every tree, leaf, and shrub. I was never going to forget a single moment.

Dave noticed my hand in Amy's, and he nodded to me as we emerged from the woods. A slight smile crossed his face in the dome light of my dad's Taurus.

Dave. It had been too long since I had last seen him. I noted his slim features and perpetually bemused expression. I wanted to give him a back-slap, or even a hug. I wanted to cringe and apologize for what had happened the last time we talked – events of which this Dave would have no memory. I held my conflicting emotions in check and just smiled at him, probably too much. With luck, Dave would just take it for a dude-I-just-lost-my-cherry smile.

“Where is Sarah?” Amy asked.

“The Exquisite Sarah went to the powder room over there.” He pointed uncomfortably close to the large oak tree, where Amy and I had made our love nest. “I'm surprised you didn't run into her.”

Just then, Sarah's porcelain face emerged from the darkness, an apparition floating amidst the trees, moving toward us. To me, she was even more a ghost, as she had been dead to me since her breakup with Dave over nine years ago. All nine years of resentment returned. This version of Dave wouldn't know what was coming his way, but I did, and I still hadn't forgiven her.

Despite this, my heart still caught in my throat as Sarah stepped from the shrubs, shaking a pant leg ensnared by buckthorn. Once extricated, she turned, and I saw she was as fatally mesmerizing as ever. I had wanted Sarah for two years during high school and somewhere deep in the hippocampus of my brain, I just remembered how to do it.

Sarah returned my stare as she approached. “I had to avoid the large poison ivy patch near the big oak tree.” In the dim starlight, I caught Sarah's phantom smile.

At the mention of poison ivy, Amy's eyes widened in horror and she scratched herself. It was all in her head, I knew. I had camped enough weekends with my father and Boy Scouts. I instinctively scouted for poison ivy when I walked through woods, and there had been none near the tree. 

Sarah was lying. I realized she had been the “raccoon” I had heard in the woods – but I didn't understand. Sarah knew I was an experienced camper, and if she knew we were there, she should also know I would catch the lie about poison ivy. If she didn't know we were there, there was no reason to lie. She therefore must want me to know she was there – Q.E.D – but why? What game was she playing?

Dave held open the car door for her. “You took long enough, but when I see how well your nose is powdered, all is forgiven.” Dave followed her into the back seat of the car. “Let's go. I promised I would have The Exquisite Sarah home by midnight. She says the glass slippers chafe when I make her try them on the next morning.” Sarah took that as her cue to kick off her shoes.




Might Have Been Ch. 01



Not Cinderella, I thought to myself as I climbed into the car, noting Sarah's blood-red lips, ebony hair, and ivory skin. She looks like Snow White, but she has the soul of the wicked stepmother – a little cold around the heart. 

Amy asked if I knew where she lived. When I nodded, she leaned against the door and seemed to sleep on our drive back to Monroe. I enjoyed her silent company on the drive. Dave and Sarah whispered love-murmurs in the back seat while Dave tickled Sarah's feet. Amy didn't stir, even when I dropped off the backseat-lovers at Dave's house, and I let her rest.

I was still feeling high from endorphins and fulfilled romantic dreams. Would it be this easy? Could I just begin my life again from this point, spending it with Amy? Could I just leave Tasha behind? At this moment, I wanted nothing more and shushed the voice of guilt and responsibility that tried to tell me nothing important was ever easy. I was living my fantasy. I wasn't going to discard my dream due to some fortune-cookie aphorism half-baked in the oven of my subconscious.

As soon as I stopped the car in Amy's driveway, the door was suddenly open, and Amy climbed out. “Thanks for a fun night, Lance,” she said as she closed the door.

What? No conversation about what tonight meant, or the status of our relationship? No goodnight kiss? 

Nothing important was ever easy. 

I left the car, following her to the porch. I saw a shadow moving in her house behind the door, and assumed it was her notoriously overprotective father. There was a sign next to the door: 

GUNS DON'T KILL PEOPLE – I KILL PEOPLE

The words “...WHO TOUCH MY DAUGHTER” were unwritten, but implied. This wasn't a good time and place for a detailed discussion of our relationship. “Amy, have breakfast with me tomorrow. My treat.”

Amy studied the floorboards of the porch. “Lance, tonight... um... was great and all – I mean really great, but I don't want you to get the wrong idea.”

My face mimed a collision with a shovel. This didn't make any sense. The night had been perfect – I had done everything right. She was everything I hoped, and I had provided a night of romantic bliss that was the stuff of her stories. I had trouble getting the words out without yelling, so I clenched my teeth and spoke in a low growl. “The wrong idea? You said you had been waiting months to fuck me!”

She cringed and glanced over her shoulder, but I had kept my voice low enough her dad didn't hear. I hoped.

“Um, yeah, I had been waiting, silly, and I did, um, you know... with you.” She whispered the last four words, embarrassed.

I flinched. After one of the greatest sexual experiences of my life, I was being dumped. My head swam with despair. “So that's it? This was a one night stand?” You are going to spit on ten years of my dreams?

“Lance!” She had the decency to blush. “You seemed to be enjoying it at the time. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. And just so you know, you were very good for a virgin. I'm sure you will be amazing and last a lot longer when you get more experience. Um, I have to get inside.” She then opened the door and scooted into her house. 

I caught a glimpse of a middle-aged man sitting in a chair, cleaning a rifle. I nodded to him. He didn’t smile and he just stared at me. I turned back to the car, shoulders slumped in defeat.

Nothing important was ever easy. 

A castle of hope, built over the last two hours, had collapsed into rubble in just seconds. Fuck fortune-cookie aphorisms. Fuck fathers with rifles. Fuck Tasha. Fuck Sarah. Fuck Amy. And fuck me.

Wait... I'll be amazing and last a lot longer when I get more experience? 

Fuck Amy twice.



∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

NOTE: Thanks for reading. Please vote and let me know your thoughts.



Might Have Been Ch. 02



CHAPTER TWO

Come as you are, as you wereAs I want you to beAs a friend, as a friendAs an old enemy

-- Nirvana, Come As You Are

October 20, 2001

Sunrise hit my bedroom window, scattering light into every dark corner of the room, symbolizing rebirth and the hope of a new day.

I flipped the blinds. Rebirth and hope could go fuck themselves.

I lay on my back and surveyed my room in the dim light, noting the juxtaposition of the foreign and familiar. Matrix and Fellowship of the Ring one-sheets decorated my walls, along with a poster of Green Day I had purchased at a concert in St. Paul. My bookshelf displayed cyberpunk, hard science fiction, Tolkien, George R. R. Martin books, and the whimsy of Douglas Adams and Christopher Moore. I had another shelf that paid tribute to my youthful fascination with romantic quests and heroes -- a fascination I had never really outgrown -- Grimm's Fairy Tales, Howard Pyle's Merry Adventures of Robin Hood, Bullfinch's Mythology, the Iliad, 1001 Arabian Nights, and Le Morte D'Arthur. I noticed The Divine Comedy and The Odyssey on my bedside, with the presence of bookmarks implying readings in progress. I nodded approvingly. Aside from the Piers Anthony novels contaminating the second shelf, I had good taste as a teenager.

All this was familiar, but it was not my room any more. I was not my eighteen-year old self. My literary tastes had expanded -- these shelves held no Vonnegut, Garcia-Marquez, Franzen, or Nabokov. The resident of this bedroom had been studying precalculus, with dreams of becoming one of the world's top physicists. I was in a dead-end job. He had been cocky and clever, while I doubted everything about myself except my own mediocrity. He had no responsibilities. I had Tasha.

I didn't belong here. Amy had shown me that. My fantasies were shit, just the masturbatory escapist yearnings of a doomed man, inextricably bound to an amazing, flawed woman who needed him. I belonged with Tasha, who was my reward and punishment for being the man I was.

The resonance array stared at me from my night stand like an accusing eye, remonstrating me for my continued presence. I had been thinking of the night of my eighteenth birthday, and a bad decision I had made, when the accident happened. That wasn't a coincidence. The array had somehow "brought" me to a universe that matched the quantum event I had been pondering. Game, set, and match to Team Everett.

The accident, however, had not caused my body to leap from one universe to another. I was twenty-eight, but my physique in this universe was the one I had when I was eighteen -- lean, with swimmer's muscles. At the time of the accident I had been wearing different clothes, and had been carrying a phone I probably could have now sold back to Samsung for ten figures.

My consciousness had somehow directed the resonance array and made the jump independent of my body. Quantum Leap nonsense like this didn't jibe with any known theories of physics -- the mind wasn't supposed to control anything, except the nervous system, but I was a scientist. If indisputable facts don't fit the theories, you need new theories. Perhaps my consciousness was brought to a space-time topology that matched my thought patterns. That made as much sense as anything.

Proof of that hypothesis would be difficult, but it didn't necessarily matter. If I wanted to make it home to Tasha, theory was less important than mechanics. I glanced at my copy of The Odyssey and pictured Tasha as Penelope, patiently waiting for me in our apartment. I needed to get home to her and focused my mind on the task.

The resonance array had two electrical contacts embedded in its annular casing. The array ran off twelve volt power, and I had a few matching power supplies in my closet. I thought of one of Professor Pugachev's maxims, recited in that Slavic-tinged, clipped English of his -- to understand experiment, you must repeat. I began to work.

Obsessing over mistakes was a long-standing habit of mine while performing routine tasks, so my mind turned once more to Amy as I rigged up the array for my attempt to transport myself home. Why had Amy snubbed me? She had no obligation to follow the course of my personal fantasies, but the abrupt change in behavior from her -- pivoting in minutes from reverence to rejection -- demanded an answer. What had I screwed up this time?

Using wire-strippers, I snipped off the existing plug on the power supply from my dad's old IBM Thinkpad. 3.5 amps should be enough, I hoped. I separated and bared the two wires, and used electrical tape to connect them to the matching contacts on the array. Ugly, but it should work.

Was I missing something about Amy's behavior? I liked puzzles, and I hadn't tried to crack this one. What was the solution? If Amy wouldn't deign to explain, my best bet was Sarah, who had arranged the evening. It wouldn't surprise me if Sarah was at the root of the whole thing, playing some deep game. Maybe she just liked inflicting heartache, as she herself had done with Dave.

I made a snap decision and stashed the array in my underwear drawer. The clock showed 8:09 AM. Sarah should be up by now. I dressed and headed down for the garage.

"Lance?"

Oh God, Mom. "Um... hey." She was so much younger than when I saw her last. I felt a pang in my heart at such an abrupt display of how fast my parents were aging. I didn't see them nearly enough anymore. Monroe was a six hour drive from Chicago, and they didn't get along with Tasha, even though they tried harder than anyone, except me. I kissed her on the cheek.

She smiled at my unexpected display of affection. "Did you have a good time last night?" She was reading Agatha Christie's Murder of Roger Ackroyd, while sitting at the kitchen table. Dad must be out golfing.

How had I answered prying questions like that? I had been a straight-A student and drank rarely enough that I never got caught, so they had me on a long leash. "Yes, we went to Mankato to see the new Denzel Washington movie."

"You got home late."

"Yes."

"And you're going out again already?"

"I'm meeting Sarah for breakfast. Mind if I use the car?" I opened the door to the garage.

My mother assented, but her eyebrows furrowed slightly. She regarded me over the frames of her reading glasses, and her smile was a little sad. "Don't grow up too fast, son."

I winced as I shut the door.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Sarah was wearing a vintage black Siouxie and The Banshees concert t-shirt, camouflage pants, and Kermit The Frog earrings. She regarded me with her half smile, which broadened as I told my story. I stayed vague on what Amy and I had done in the woods, but when I described my confusion over Amy's callous dismissal on her front porch, Sarah laughed.

It was bad enough having to buy the Ice Queen breakfast, but there was no call for this. "Laughing at a man in the throes of heartbreak can lead to getting stuck with the check and walking home."

Sarah's brow furrowed into a stern expression, and she raised her palm in a mockery of a threat. "Self pity gets you bitch-slapped. You've been warned." She propped her elbows on the table and rested her porcelain face in her hands. "Broken-hearted? You barely acknowledged her existence before last night." Sarah cocked her head, watching me as she would a cute puppy in a pet store window. "You're the sweetest guy."

Further mockery? "Is that the problem? She wants me to be an asshole?" Memories of how Sarah treated Dave were stoking my temper to near-boiling.

Sarah reached across the table and patted me on the hand. "I knew Amy wanted some quality time with you, and it was your birthday, so I went along, and now you're making me feel guilty for setting you up. It didn't occur to me you would fall for her. You two barely have anything in common."

"That's not true. We both like old movies."

Sarah scrunched her face in skepticism. "Like what?"

"She saw the old Capra film, Arsenic and Old Lace."

"Mrs. Jorgenson showed it in English last year, after it was selected as the school play. Everyone in the class watched it."

I frowned.

Sarah helped me. "You both love romances, only you get yours from the Brothers Grimm instead of Harlequin. That is the full extent of your common ground. She's religious. You said you were a pagan, last I checked."

"Heathen."

Sarah conceded the point. "All the books she reads are at an eighth grade reading level, or lower. Aren't you reading Dante, and it's not assigned for any class?"

"Yes, but that isn't true about her. She likes Shakespeare. She saw Hamlet."

"Yes, dear, because Ethan Hawke was in it."

That hurt. "No way."

"She has a dozen photos of him in her locker. Lance, sweetie, why do you think you didn't get an argument last night about seeing a depressing film about police corruption?"

"Fuck." Damn him. First Uma, now Amy...

Sarah paused, as if considering her words carefully. "I also thought you knew she was a slut." She watched for my reaction.

Our waitress only now arrived with our drinks. Her slow delivery of my orange juice had wrecked the opportunity for the perfect spit-take. I gaped at Sarah instead.

"This is what Amy does, Lance. I love her like the neurotic little sister I never had, but the lady is a tramp."

The waitress set two glasses of orange juice on our table and saw that as an opening. "My sister's a tramp too!"

Sarah flashed a grin of mischief. "Can you please write down her phone number for Lance here? She sounds like his type."

The waitress was apologetic to me. "She's thirty-five, honey."

Amy had unceremoniously dumped me last night, but I didn't like hearing her honor sullied. "Explain," I demanded, after the waitress left.

Sarah squinted her eyes and pondered. "Did she pull her move on you? Where she pretends to come at the moment of entry?"

My thin lips and red face answered her question.

Sarah nodded in understanding. "She's proud of that one. Amy moons over some cute guy while dressing like the Queen of Frump. The more he ignores her, the more she wants him, until she wears what she calls her 'sex clothes' and seduces him. Then she feels ashamed until she finds another guy. Her dad won't let her have a boyfriend, so it's cheap defiance, and she gets to screw around. She's kind of fucked up, and will stay that way until she learns to control or embrace her wanton ways." Sarah considered. "Resolving her overcontrolling-daddy issues wouldn't hurt either. At least that's what I told her when she dropped two bits in the cup at my Lucy-booth." She shrugged.

"You told her that?"

"Just Wednesday, and once or twice each week before that. Everyone at school seems to know of her slatternly behavior. She has quite the reputation."

Everyone at school... "You know I never gossip."

Sarah arched an eyebrow and pointed her finger at me sternly, as if I had just confessed to shoplifting. "This is why you should." She was a notorious gossip herself, but never seemed to be wrong. "What makes a slut a slut is that they don't settle on one guy. Amy's a nice girl, and can be a fantastic date if you want her to be what she is. Most guys she chases have no problem with her being who she is. I say again, you are such a sweetie." She smiled at me. "You just need to use that brilliant noggin of yours for something more ambitious than self-deception."

It all made sense, of course. I had been willfully blind. Amy had initiated every sordid act last night. She had been on the pill, and in retrospect had clearly been an experienced lover, not a fumbling virgin. Her last infuriating comment, about me being a better lover when I got more experience, should have been an obvious clue to her own sexual history. If I hadn't felt insulted, I would have noticed. I should have noticed anyway.

I may not be as smart as everyone once thought, but I'm smarter than this. "I feel used," I complained.

Sarah tsked in sympathy, while reaching over to pat my hand again. Her other hand reached into her purse and retrieved something. She opened my hand, pressed a small plastic package into my palm, and closed my fingers around it portentously, as if bestowing an important gift.

"What's this?" I asked.

"I know how much of a method actor you are, dear. If you're going to play the role of the whiny bitch, you will want to experience wearing one of these. It's a maxi pad. "

I threw it back at her, but there was no anger in it.

Sarah smiled disarmingly. "You really don't want to make me regret arranging for a hot date like Amy, do you? I'm sincerely sorry you misunderstood the situation, but never in a million years did I think it would hurt you. In fact, Dave had to convince me it would work."

"You're blaming Dave?"

She looked annoyed at the implication. "I thought you were so uninterested in Amy, you would ignore her, even if she threw her clothes off and started humping your leg." She made some what-do-I-know gestures. "I obviously didn't know you as well as Dave did, and I apologize, but you can't over-react and pretend she was the woman of your dreams."

My anger dissipated. Sarah had made her point. She had been gifting me an easy lay for my birthday, and couldn't know I was going to blow the chance, obsess over it for ten years, and find a way to time travel back to 2001 for another shot. The unrealistic expectations had all been mine. I felt less heartbroken, but more pathetic, as I realized how badly I misread Amy. I used to pride myself on my brains, but this was one more piece of evidence I was just another dumbass convinced every woman in the world wanted him.

Why was I so drawn to the belief of Amy as an innocent? I was afraid I knew. "Did you ever read the Devil's Dictionary?" I asked.

Sarah's lips pursed in puzzlement. "Just the bits assigned in English last year. Ambrose Pierce?"

"Bierce, yeah. I liked it, and read the whole thing. I even wrote some definitions of my own, of which my favorite was: virginity -- a seemingly harmless beast, that must in truth be the most deadly, as men hunt it for the sole purpose of destroying it."

Sarah snorted her orange juice up her nose, and she re-composed herself with a napkin. "Not just men, you now realize?" Her smile was broad.

I had meant something else, but her interpretation reflected better on me, so I let it stand.

Our food arrived. Sarah ate her fruit salad and watched me across the table with a gleam in her eye and a smirk on her face. I was reminded why I loved her once. Her face and moods were so animated. She was a consummate actress, faking the emotions to hide the ice within.

"So, are you gonna dish?" she asked.

I was confused. I glanced down at my breakfast burrito and chorizo. "You want to try my sausage?"

"Ha! You wish."

I needed to stop feeding her easy lines.

Sarah leaned forward and put her elbows on the table, resting her face in a cradle formed by the backs of her folded hands. She wriggled her ass in her seat, making an exaggerated display of getting comfortable. She grinned at me, raised her eyebrows twice in rapid succession, and asked, "I mean, how was she?"

Amy. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

"I'll keep that in mind if I see one, dear. How was she?"

This was an old argument between us. "You think insulting me is going to convince me to feed your jones for gossip?"

She switched expressions, from conspiratorial gossip-hound to lost-puppy-in-a-storm. She tilted her head down and to the side, so she could look up at me, and she bared her white teeth in a fake smile. "Pleeeeease..."

"You're shameless."

She batted her eyelashes. "Yes I am. How was she?"

I grinned, despite the grudge I was trying to bear on Dave's behalf. I had forgotten how much fun Sarah could be when it suited her purpose. She knew exactly how to wheedle information without causing anger. No wonder her gossip was usually correct. I decided to raise the ante. "Come on, I don't ask how it is with you and Dave."

She re-raised. "Oh, Dave is a generous lover. Last night, he spent a full five minutes using his tongue --"

"That isn't what I meant!" Sarah had no concept of sexual privacy. I knew that once, but had forgotten.

Sarah leaned back and did a sitting victory dance, hula-ing in place with arms over her head.

I went all-in. "Why are you asking, anyway? You already know, you scamp. I heard you in the bushes last night."

That stopped her dancing. She leaned forward, took a swig of her orange juice, and said nothing -- her porcelain face as unreadable as a china doll's.

"I don't believe it, I shut you up," I gloated, and did my own booty-dance of verbal victory.

Sarah showed a hint of a smile. "Guilty as charged." She didn't act it.

"How long were you watching?"

She was quiet for a few seconds, as if calculating how to respond. "Well, dear, imagine having just gotten comfortable after finding a good place to relieve yourself, with your skirt hiked up and underwear down around your knees." She composed her face, emulating blissful contentment, which was abruptly broken by a shock of surprise. "Suddenly, a castrated flute starts screaming three feet from your ear!"

The couple at the next table silently reproached me for my seismic laughter.

Sarah lowered her voice to a confessional whisper. "I would have wet myself if I hadn't already been peeing."

"You were right behind the tree," I said in disbelief.

"I was so surprised, I almost jumped in the air far enough to make it a threesome."

"All for the best. I don't think Amy swings that way."

"So I looked around frantically to see what was going on. Maybe I was about to be attacked by a wounded bobcat. I should have figured it out faster, and left discretely, but then I saw her screwing you."

"And once you realized your mistake, you did the polite thing and left immediately." If she took the bait and lied, I had her.

Sarah's mouth twitched and her lips pursed. She squirmed in her seat and studied the pattern on the tablecloth. "Not immediately, no."

Dammit, she was confessing the whole thing. "What, you stayed and watched?"

"Yes."

"I didn't realize you had a voyeur fetish." I rarely had the chance to tease her.

"Neither did I. It wasn't just that, though. I wasn't sure how to leave without you hearing me."

"So how long did you stay?"

"I was definitely there for your own triumphant... ahem... arrival." She nodded to me and winked with exaggerated appreciation. "I walked away when she started screaming again, thinking her impersonation of a tortured howler monkey would cover my retreat, but I tripped on a stump."

"You vixen, you."

She bounced her head in embarrassed agreement. "It was really hot." She averted her eyes, and I noticed her porcelain cheeks had a flush of rose in them. She was blushing. I never, ever, recalled seeing Sarah blush. I was suddenly conscious of the texture of her skin and every rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. I wanted to know more. "You lied about the poison ivy."

"Yes." She spoke reluctantly now.

"You wanted me to know you were there."

She paused before answering. Her blush deepened. "Maybe," she whispered.

"Why?"

Another pause, longer this time. She ran her hand across her face and sat up, meeting eye contact again. "Do you always know why you do things?"

She was quoting one of Gabriel Byrne's last lines in Miller's Crossing, a film I recalled seeing with Dave and Sarah, when we went on a Coen Brothers kick. I considered her words, remembered who she was, and determined she was just playing a mind game, keeping me on her hook so she would have someone else's heart to break in case Dave got wise.




Might Have Been Ch. 02



Sarah watched me as all this ran through my head, saying nothing, then asked, "Why don't you like to talk about sex, Lance?"

"I thought we just did."

"No, you evaded my questions about sex, and instead we talked about my reactions to what I saw."

"You saw sex."

"Which you won't talk about. Amy has an asshole father to get her fucked up about sex. Your parents are saints, so what's your excuse?"

Sarah's utter frankness had always made me uncomfortable. "I may be fucked up, but not about sex."

Sarah's eyebrows furrowed in distaste at my response. I couldn't tell if she was objecting to my saying I was fucked up, or saying I wasn't fucked up about sex.

I felt the need to defend myself. "It seems... ungallant. Most women are extremely uptight about it, and most guys who brag are assholes."

"Amy isn't uptight about it. I would like your point of view, but I'll get the sordid details straight from her."

"You'll have to."

"Then you're just using gallantry as an excuse. It's really about you, not her."

I was getting irritated. "Fine."

"So why keep it so private?"

"Why are you so public about it?"

"I asked you first." She maintained her smile to keep this fun. Somehow it worked.

"I don't know. Intimacy, I think. Sex is incredibly powerful. It brings up emotions strong enough to guarantee the survival of the species. As far as our genes are concerned, it's why we exist."

"That's deep."

Now I was sure I was being mocked. "In a praying mantis, the sexual instinct compels the male to offer his head to the female, for her to bite it off, so she can eat him and have enough protein to sustain her eggs. That's power."

Sarah feigned shock. "You offered head, and Amy tried to do that? The poor girl doesn't know what she missed."

That would have been funny if she hadn't been irritating me. "People are obviously wired different, but the power is still there. You have to be careful -- respectful."

"And you figured all that out just from losing your cherry last night?"

"Do you want your question answered or not? You don't need much experience to recognize the power of sex. Politicians destroy their careers for it. Rich men obsessively collect millions, and then lose most of it in a divorce settlement after cheating on their wives. Celebrities who base their careers on being a role model throw it away for a night with a prostitute, or a wank in a movie theater."

She seemed to consider that. "And we shouldn't fuck with such powerful emotions?"

"So to speak. Why are you so open about sex?" I asked again.

Sarah contemplated me over the rim of her orange juice before she answered. "Same reason, I guess." The slight smile was back on her face again. "I thought your choice of Halloween costume tonight was a cry for help, not a confession."

"Halloween costume?"

"For the dance, silly." She playfully kicked me under the table.

Memories returned -- a pale face in a wedding dress and the lacy graze of a glove on my cheek -- and I felt a sense of excitement. The wheels started turning. The Halloween Dance -- another missed chance.

I hadn't realized I had screwed up two different romantic opportunities almost simultaneously, and I shelved my earlier decision to find my home timeline today. Tasha would have to wait. I had been thinking earlier of her as Penelope, which now seemed even more apt, as Odysseus also took romantic detours on the way home. I expected to feel guilt, and it was there, trying to get my attention like an annoying little sister wanting me to watch her perform a cartwheel, but I ignored it. I had been faithful to Tasha for six years and had never cheated on any girl, but somehow alternate universes didn't count -- or so I was able to convince myself.

The dance. I needed a Cunning Plan. What the hell had I worn to the Halloween Dance in 2001? "What costume are you talking about?"

"Earlier this week, you were trying to decide whether Benedictine or Franciscan attire would better show off your quote -- bitchin' dance moves -- unquote."

I remembered. We had seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and I had loved the monks who muttered Gregorian chants while inexplicably whacking themselves in the face with large leather tomes. I tried coordinating a group costume, where we would all smack our faces with books while chanting on the dance floor, but Dave and Sarah had better plans. It was a two person show and I was the odd man out. "I went with Franciscan. Black makes me look pasty."

Sarah took mock offense, clutching the fabric of her black t-shirt.

"Pasty looks good on you though," I said, and then asked an unnecessary question. "What are you and Dave doing?"

"You'll find out at the dance."

I picked up the check. My own actions that night had been as forgettable as Sarah's were memorable. If I wanted to remedy that, I needed to gird my loins and brains for a rematch with That Bitch Courtney.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

My original failure with Amy had made me realize my obsession with Sarah was thwarting other romantic chances. Much to Dave's dismay, I had focused my romantic efforts on my high school nemesis. Dave had begun referring to her as "That Bitch Courtney" after she destroyed the snowmen, but despite her often hostile attitude, and our respective positions as generals of opposing political camps, I didn't think the appellation fit.

Courtney and I had a love-hate relationship throughout high school. Her father had lost the farm when she was young, and Courtney was possessed by the fear of repeating her father's mistakes. She developed an impressive head for business and economics, with a fierce discipline that had her working harder than any other student in the school. She was also the president of the school's Young Republicans club. We lived in a conservative rural area, so there weren't enough Democrats to have a high school organization, but I was the unofficial leader of the liberal wing of the student body.

Our school interactions were one long war of words. We fought in every social studies class discussion. English classes usually had a speech unit, and ours were always political, often taking opposing sides. We were both in debate -- never on the same team, but we practiced against each other, oratorically attacking and undermining each other over the course of four years.

We both saw our verbal combat as a form of foreplay. Courtney had long chestnut hair, a regal nose, a flirty demeanor, and a penchant for t-shirts two sizes too small. She had lettered in cross-country and track, developing strong, graceful legs that drew stares every time shorts-season started. Her most tantalizing feature, however, was her tongue, despite all the verbal lashes I received from it. When she laughed in class, it was a soft open-mouthed chuckle that revealed her tongue lightly tapping the roof of her mouth. When she smiled, her tongue would press against her teeth, as if searching for an escape from jail. When flirty, it would flick out between her lips. Dave said that was just how vipers used their sense of smell, but to me it was a tantalizing premonition of a kiss.

Courtney's ferocity, unattainability, and sensuality had me in carnal torment. During our debates, my lust for her often mandated the use my research folder to hide my priapic state. Her ability to distract me was her best weapon against me.

She reciprocated my attraction, actively flirting with me, seeking help with math and science, and inviting me to socialize with her friends. The illusion of a contentious courtship had half the school thinking we were dating, but it never happened. Courtney could never forgive my constant kicking of her ass. She had a drive to win, and no matter the cost, she would keep viewing me as an opponent to be defeated until she had finally won.

That was my mistake. She never emerged victorious from our verbal bouts. I knew it, she knew it, and the good citizens of Monroe High School knew it. Courtney's political tunnel vision prevented her from understanding opposing arguments prior to the debate. I always knew her arguments before she made them and had my rebuttals ready -- but Courtney never learned how to raise her shield against the arguments I wielded against her.

I had tried to coach her, but she said she would rather lose than read Paul Krugman's columns or slog through budget data. She got her wish, but I didn't. I asked her out once, shortly after we returned from Christmas break. Knowing I was giving her the ultimate weapon against me in any future argument, I cornered her in the hallway after school and invited her to a movie. With my most disarming smile, I said, "All that flirting we do has finally driven me crazy enough to ask you out."

Her eyes were cold and unblinking when she answered, "Lance, I'm sorry, I just don't see you that way." As she walked away, her footsteps in the empty hallway echoed like laughter.

When our next argument escalated in Economics, over the Bush Tax Cut, she used the doomsday device I had placed in her hands. I had savaged her claim the cuts had been for the middle class, and she responded with a smile so wide her cuspids flashed like fangs. "Arguments like that are why I turned you down when you asked me out last week."

There is no shame like a teenager facing romantic humiliation in front of a room full of peers. Few classmates minded seeing my ego take a hit, which made her verbal strike bleed worse.

Through the wisdom of time and Tasha, I resented Courtney less and realized it had been my fault. My mistake wasn't in a failure of perception or nerve, as it had been with Amy, but in defeating Courtney so often she could only cope by skewering my heart on the dagger of her tongue. The outcome had been inevitable -- written in stone since the Halloween Dance. That night had offered a better path for both of us, one I had missed.

A "phantom bride" had appeared at the dance, unrecognizable in dyed-black hair, a white dress and veil, and ghostly face-and-body paint. The dress had attracted attention, with its tight top and a scandalous neckline. The "phantom bride" had approached me with invitation in her eyes. She sinuously raised a white-gloved hand to touch my face, then she leaned forward, gracing me with a light kiss on the cheek. Her hand lingered as she retreated, and she locked her eyes to mine, not saying a word.

I peered closer -- at her height, the regal nose, the contours of her lips, and the way she posed her body. I had studied that face and body closely for years, and knew her at once. "Courtney?"

She deflated into a small, disappointed pout. "Aw, man! How did you know it was me?"

I shrugged, and displayed a smug smile. Without even trying, I had outsmarted her yet again.

Courtney ignored me the rest of the night, but she had revealed her hand. I knew she felt the same perverse attraction for me that I felt for her. This stoked my courage enough to eventually ask her on a date, which presented her with an irresistible chance at the revenge she owed me.

I had missed my opportunity. She used the lie of her disguise to speak the truth of her attraction. If I hadn't recognized her, or had pretended not to, she could have declared victory in one of our bouts, and maybe she would have been mollified. Maybe her drive to win would not have overwhelmed the clear sexual interest she had in me.

Maybe.

Maybe I had a second chance.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Crepe paper bats and rubber spiders dangled from the poles and archways that demarcated the dance floor. Several spiders had already been impounded by students and impressed into duty as yo-yos. Marilyn Manson was blaring from the speakers, but no one was dancing. It would take the Twin Cities DJ a few more tries to realize he needed to play Country Music or slow songs to get anyone out on the floor.

I couldn't remember what time Courtney had arrived, so I was at the dance unfashionably early. There was no sign of her yet, and I was being worn down by thirty minutes of constant deja vu, as the people and events of ten years ago unfolded around me. Interacting with people in a different way than I had a decade ago kept the deja vu at bay, so I tried to engage, or at least watch, those around me. Heather approached me to ask what I was wearing under my robe, and I answered with the first of many evasive answers to that question I would give tonight. I would date Heather the summer after graduation. We had taken each other's virginity, but she cried every time we had sex. I didn't suck at sex (at least no worse than any other newly deflowered eighteen year old -- I hoped), rather, sex with me evoked an almost-Pavlovian guilt response.

There was Amber, the school's head football cheerleader, dressed as a Minnesota Golden Gophers cheerleader. Unimaginative, but I couldn't criticize her for flaunting her curves. She was a sweetheart -- we had been close growing up, and worked together in the summer at the municipal pool. I never saw a flicker of interest from her, except maybe once.

Amber was talking to Sidney, her best friend and partner in crime, who was dressed as a cat. The "Toothsome Twosome", as Dave called them, were also the stars of the gymnastics team. Sidney had a physique to rival Amber's, but mild acne-scarring on her face resulted in less attention from men. Sid also worked at the pool, and she had a wry sense of humor I liked. Both Sidney and Amber specialized in dating college athletes while cock-teasing the high school jocks.

Fatigue-wearing Sumbeech Carl was glaring at Scott The Hoople, who was characteristically tone-deaf -- dressing as Osama Bin Ladin only a month after 9/11. Snazzy Pete made the mistake of dressing as a mulleted redneck, when a dozen real mulleted rednecks had shown their disdain for social convention by attending without a costume. Dwayne The Impaler was Zombie Elvis. Red Madison, Blonde Madison, and Brittney all stood glaring at each other from different corners of the gym, each annoyed that the other two had also dressed as french maids.

I greeted them all with the nervous enthusiasm of someone who hadn't seen them in ten years.

Amy was there as well, but I only recognized her body. She was wearing a genie costume with a bikini top, and her face was hidden behind exaggerated amounts of make-up, making her look more a geisha than a genie. She ignored me, mooning around some guy in a devil costume -- I thought it was Rod the Mod. I felt a pang of disappointment, but it wasn't as severe as last night, when I was convinced my heart had been broken.

I wondered whether my entire infatuation with her had been a sham. I had no right to be jealous of her attempts at Beatnik Boy, when I was trying to sprint toward my next assignation as fast as she was. Had it even been Amy I wanted, or a manufactured illusion of Amy, or just any fantasy offering an escape from Tasha? Self-doubt chewed at my stomach, forcing me to wonder whether I was repeating the same mistake with Courtney. I mulled over this unhappy thought, until I heard Dave and Sarah hail me from the doorway.

They had arrived in black trench coats, concealing their costumes. Sarah had her black mane imprisoned in a severe bun. She was wearing glossy red lipstick and had applied what was, even for her, an excessive amount of mascara. Sarah noticed me, crinkled her nose, and greeted me by way of a happy-dance.

Dave noticed my robe and approached. "What are you wearing under there?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I think I might get kicked out of the Tribe, and I need some fallback options. Do the Friars have a dental plan?"

"Yes, and free beer, but I don't want an angry rabbi blaming me and bringing down a plague of locusts on my house."

He shook his head. "I thought you knew history. Jews don't blame. We get blamed." Dave wasn't nearly as excited as Sarah. He removed his trench coat and hung it up on the rack. His clothes were all black -- a makeshift outfit, strewn with metal loops and straps. He turned his back, donned a black leather mask, then moved to take Sarah's coat.

As he took it from her shoulders, Sarah wheeled on him. "Scum! I shouldn't have to wait for you to take my coat. You'll be punished!"

Sarah was revealed in her glory. She had gone the full dominatrix -- a bustier, skintight pants, gloves, and stiletto boots -- all PVC vinyl and black as sin. Her bustier exposed her taut, snowy stomach, with its embedded ruby glinting malevolently in the muted gym lights. To complete the effect, she wielded a whip, and handcuffs dangled from her hip.

Dave groveled in character. "Yes, Sultry Mistress. May I kiss your feet as punishment?" A crowd had begun to gather.

"You talk too much, insect! Put on... The Gag!" She withdrew a red and black contraption from her belt and held it high, as if it were Excalibur fresh-drawn from the stone. She presented it to her boyfriend, who sniveled on cue before reluctantly taking it from her.

Dave turned to me. With a the-things-I-do-for-love expression, he placed the ball gag in his mouth. Sarah fastened it around the back of his neck and gave him a firm pat on the cheek. Her finishing touch was to leash him by way of a loop on the rear strap of the ball gag. I recognized the leash as belonging to Dickens, Dave's loyal terrier, but I never did find out where they got the gag. When I asked, Sarah just chortled and Dave muttered, "Don't ask."

Dave's mom always was too submissive for her own good.

"Down on your knees, slave!" Sarah commanded, shoving him to the floor. "Your punishment commences!" She removed her whip from her waist, made a show of running her fingers down its length, and snapped a test lash on the floor. The crack of the whip drew more attention, and now almost every attendee at the dance was watching -- some with horror, more with amusement, and a few with lustful intensity. Red Madison, I hardly knew ye...

Not all attention was welcome -- Vice Principal Murphy, the dance chaperone, was making his way from the front door, following a high school administrator's instinct that whatever fascinates students is bad for the school. Murphy was a balding, duffel-bag of a man wearing a rumpled corduroy sport coat that had already been passe when he was hired by the school in the mid-eighties. Murphy elbowed toward the front to inspect the source of the commotion.

Sarah was now playfully whipping Dave's behind. No force was behind the whip, but Dave would cringe and flinch, as if in exquisite pain, and then raise his rear higher each time. The gag muffled his cries. The man was a true artist, giving his all for his craft.

Vice Principal Murphy watched the spectacle, and dismay and mortification contorted his features. "Oh, Sarah..."

Sarah's first acknowledgment of his presence was a narrowing of the eyes. "Vice Principal Murphy." Sarah's voice was clear and loud -- her tone wasn't deference, but the polite respect due a peer. "Am I encroaching on your role as school disciplinarian?" Murphy and Sarah had tussled over her painting's entry into the art show the previous year, and I had no doubt she had maneuvered him into his role as straight man tonight.

"Sarah, you can't do this." Murphy had the beleaguered expression of a middle-aged cop in a Hollywood action movie -- trying to last two more days until retirement, but knowing in his heart he wouldn't make it.

"I understand." Sarah nodded to him.

Murphy was smart enough to be more wary than relieved.

Sarah turned to address Dave, who was still supplicating himself on the floor. "Slave, Vice Principal Murphy wants to administer your punishments himself. Obey him as you would me." She offered her whip to Murphy, and Dave shifted his body to present his ass for abuse by the Vice Principal.




Might Have Been Ch. 02



Murphy stared at Sarah for a moment, then Dave on the floor. Dave seemed to sense the attention and wiggled his ass -- inviting the whip. Murphy finally gazed heavenward, seeking a rescue that would not come. He uttered a plaintive whisper, "Sarah, is it that important to you to get me fired?"

Sarah didn't flinch, but peered at him suspiciously. "As a fellow disciplinarian, you have used a whip before, haven't you?"

Murphy closed his eyes, and his voice rose to his practiced bellow. "That's enough! Both of you must leave the dance immediately!" He escorted them toward the door, his spine stiffened. I noted Murphy's unusual gait as he placed his hand on the small of Sarah's back. Not just his spine...

Sarah removed the handcuffs from her hip and made a play of snapping them around her captor's wrist. "Ha! You call that punishment? You need instruction!"

Murphy confiscated the cuffs, seized Sarah's elbow, and rushed her to the door of the gym. Poor Dave was dragged by his leash. He did his best to keep up -- nostrils flaring as he tried to breath around the ball gag -- maintaining his full-body simper.

The crowd of students booed Murphy, until Sarah took a bow as she backed out the door. The students roared their approval, and Sarah left the dance to the sound of applause.

After exiling Sarah and Dave to the parking lot, Murphy turned, and made a beeline for the men's room -- something that had blessedly escaped my attention when I had witnessed this same scene ten years ago. Eww.

I watched through the windows as Dave and Sarah hustled to their car to get the materials for phase two of their performance art. Dwayne the Impaler was standing next to me, and I noticed him turn, look behind me, and utter an impressed, "Damn..."

A similar change in attitude rippled away from him. A dozen people turned to gaze over my shoulder. I felt someone behind me.

Turning to see who it was, I found myself facing the Ghost of Missed-Chances Past.

Courtney had been holding a pose, waiting for me to notice her. She was sheathed in her "phantom bride" costume, with her arms stretching behind her, spreading her veil like a cape, and thrusting forward her barely-clad chest. The top of her cotton wedding dress had sleeves down to her wrists, but was skin-tight and transitioned, almost imperceptibly, into a pair of white, lace gloves. Her dress had a plunging neckline more appropriate to a Vegas wedding, where the bride had begun the day as a showgirl. The dress cut a deep "V", while clinging possessively to breasts supported merely by youth and spite. Jet-black hair and a veil framed her face. Her only exposed skin was at her face and neck, and at the sartorial breach at her breasts. All were painted death-white, except two black pools around her eyes. The dress extended down to her white high heels and was slitted on one side, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of a sculpted leg, clad in white nylon.

Our moment had arrived, and she was following the script I remembered from a decade past. I had briefly worried some butterfly-effect from earlier would have altered tonight, but luck was with me. My eyes returned to her face, pausing a moment on the way. 

Courtney gave a thin smile in response to the path my eyes had taken, and slowly leaned close to me. Her hand rose to give the same lacy caress I so vividly remembered. She turned my head, closed her eyes, and with aching hesitancy, grazed my cheek with her lips. She sighed into my ear as if unable to contain the tension within her, and a chill traversed my spine.

I declined to speak her name, keeping a mask of curiosity on my face.

Courtney's eyes searched mine for any hint of recognition. She had spent time and effort preparing this, venturing so far as to touch and kiss me. She would be nervous and excited, fearful I would catch her, but tempted by what she could create from my ignorance. She had never acted in theater, but was playing the part of the mysterious seductress, and I needed to behave as if I were her willing, but befuddled, victim.

"Do I know you?" I asked.

Courtney's feet declined the question for her, side-winding to the center of the dance floor, where Alicia Keys's Fallin' had begun to play. She beckoned for me to join her, as her hips swayed to the beat and words of the music.

I keep on fallin'In and out of loveWith you

I masked my face with a bewildered expression and joined her on the dance floor. Her hand was still beckoning me as I took it in mine, placing the other on the small of her back. She never stopped her hypnotic movements, and she continued to search my eyes for the faintest spark of recognition. The interrogation in her gaze reminded me of movies where two Cold War spies, one male and one female, appraise each other on the dance floor, exchanging double entendres and disinformation.

Grateful for the dance lessons I had taken with Tasha, I matched Courtney's movements, staying inches off center, allowing me to stand close and still maneuver. I guided her around the periphery of the dance floor, first advancing, then spinning and retreating as I pulled her toward me. I thrilled to touch her, something she had never let me do in my own impoverished reality.

Lovin' you darlin'Makes me so confused

Courtney seemed surprised I knew how to dance, and I saw an unaffected smile break through, complete with a glimpse of her laughing tongue. Yes! I was paradoxically reaching the real Courtney by allowing her to pretend to be someone else.

She spun away from me, and I reached across her torso and pulled her close -- allowing me to whisper in her ear while holding her from behind.

"Who are you?"

She said nothing, but gyrated her hips, tracing a figure-eight pattern as she swayed side to side, brushing her curves against the stirring beneath my waistline. I matched her tempo, but made smaller circles to intensify the contact. She made no overt sign, but her letting it happen was signal enough.

"Tell me," I insisted.

She shook her head in time to the music, shifting her hips in counterpoint. I adjusted my steps to match.

"You're going to make me guess, aren't you?"

She danced in my arms, silently savoring my curiosity. Like a good spy, she revealed nothing deliberately, but I knew her too well, and could sense she was electrified by my feigned ignorance of her identity.

I saw advantage in further misdirection. "You can't fool me. I know who you are..." (I could feel her body tense beneath my hands) "...Amber." Amber was the same height as Courtney and had a similar athletic build, so the identification was plausible. Amber's bust was the stuff of high school legend, but because Courtney had never before displayed her cleavage like this, I surmised she would take the comparison as a compliment.

A tremor of silent laughter shimmered through Courtney's body. She extended her hand and pointed toward the band booth, where students sold pop to pay for marching band uniforms. Amber stood next to Sidney -- they were talking and drinking their evening ration of Diet Cokes, flanked by the tailback and safety from our football team -- the only members of the team who hadn't yet realized they had no chance with either girl, shy of playing Division II college ball.

Both Amber and Sidney were watching us dance. Sidney was peering intently at Courtney, as if trying to see past the makeup. Amber watched me with curiosity, and when we made eye contact, she smiled and flashed me a thumbs up sign.

Courtney pulled my gaze back to hers. I caught a flash of annoyance, and she raised her finger in warning. She wanted my attention entirely on her tonight, and I saw promise in her possessiveness.

"So you aren't Amber," I conceded.

Courtney moved her arms overhead and leaned back into me, presented a tantalizing view of her painted breasts in their cotton prison. She embraced her inner Mata Hari with fervor, and added sultry shrugs to her movements -- pressing harder into my pelvis, with an unmistakable grind. My face was close to hers, and I breathed her in, intoxicated by her proximity and scent -- a mix of sweat, body paint, and Chanel No. 5.

She leaned against me and closed her eyes, lost in the sensations of my arms and body. This was her fantasy, using anonymity to dispel our competition, and just feel my strength around her. Caught in my embrace and the realization of years of sexual tension, Courtney slowly turned her face, and I felt her soft lips brush my neck. She placed her own hands on top of mine, guiding them down the curve of a hip, across the tense expanse of her stomach, and returning to her navel -- repeating a circular pattern while our hips moved as one. She said nothing, but her closed eyes spoke for her. This wasn't a mere tease, but a deep wish made real.

I remembered how badly I misread Amy, but knew I wasn't making that mistake with Courtney. I remembered all her criticisms of every girl I had dated -- Lisa was too spineless, Debbie too dumb, and Ashley too frivolous. I recalled all the dropped pencils when she sat in front of me, where she would glance back and smile as she leaned over, catching me watching her -- all the times she sat next to me at lunch, under the pretense of continuing an argument from class -- all the moments I saw her in the stands at my swim meets, cheering me on. I may have imagined Amy as an innocent, but no, I was not hallucinating Courtney's desire for me. I just needed it to be stronger than her love of winning.

Our long dance of sex and strife spun us in circles. I remembered part of a quote I had seen on Sarah's locker door -- O body swayed to music, O brightening glance / how can we know the dancer from the dance? I was lost in the dance, and just wanted to sway and spin until we were both so dizzy we forgot all the trivialities over which we fought.

That was when goddamned Alicia Keys decided to stop singing.

As the song ended, the external world recreated itself. We were the only ones dancing. Half the students who had been watching us averted their eyes. I read the thoughts on the faces of those still watching -- Lance getting a public standing-lap-dance from a mystery woman didn't fit their perception of the way the world worked. I saw resentment staring out from behind Scott the Hoople's Osama beard. Snazzy Pete just shook his mulleted head in amused disbelief. Heather was irritated, Amber appeared thoughtful, and Vice Principal Murphy had a frown, like he was considering banishing us to join Sarah and Dave in the parking lot.

Courtney lightly kissed me on the cheek, then floated off in the direction of the ladies room.

I watched her disappear, trying to control my emotional vertigo. The band's pop stand beckoned, and I walked over for a Coke, with ice -- lots of ice.

"Hi Lance! What does a monk wear under his robe?" The greeting had the tone of a bad actor's audition.

"He's clad in his iron vows of chastity," I replied, recognizing the voice of the speaker.

Brittney was in line behind me, grinning artificially at me in her French maid costume. Brittney was Courtney's best friend and running partner on the cross-country team. She was outwardly cute, but wherever Brit walked, a cloud of cluelessness followed -- or so I once described it to Dave. He had disagreed, arguing instead it was a "miasma of mediocrity". We had debated the point once over lunch until Sarah slapped us.

"Courtney is sick tonight and couldn't make it," Brit blurted.

"Um, that's too bad." This is your scout, Courtney? You have no subtlety. 

"Hey, who was that girl out there with you?"

I couldn't turn down the opportunity to feed disinformation to Courtney. "She won't tell me her name. I think it might be that girl from Waseca who used to date Aaron Meadows."

Brittney frowned. "Why would she be here? They broke up at homecoming a few weeks ago."

"Yeah, but that girl had a glorious rack as well, and I would recognize a local."

Brit couldn't hide her smile, so she quickly drank from her cup as she walked away. "Well, have fun!"

"Thanks, and tell Courtney I hope she feels much better soon."

Brittney thought that was hysterical, then realized she was laughing too hard, so she shut up too abruptly, and she finally just panicked and ran away. I presumed she headed to the bathroom to confirm to Courtney that I was completely baffled and thought she had a "glorious rack". The next move would have to be Courtney's.

Dave and I had argued many times over which was the real Courtney. Dave insisted she was just "That Bitch Courtney", only interested in using people and winning. I had stopped arguing with him after her rejection of me, but had never been convinced. Her attraction for me had been too persistent, for too long.

I remembered how she had wanted to accompany us to the Green Day concert, and how excited she had been the night we went. She had paid for her own ticket, leaving the status of the night romantically ambiguous. We had thrashed around together in the mosh pit, until someone stepped on her ankle, and I helped her back to our seats, where we sat the rest of the concert pretending to get baked off the second-hand marijuana smoke from the aging stoners sitting in front of us.

I remembered her backhanded compliments of my wardrobe, where she would criticize the casual shirt I was wearing that day, but always contrasted it by praising some item I had worn last week.

I remembered her helping me practice for theater auditions, in exchange for me letting her cheat off my math tests. She would prod me when she didn't know an answer, and I would hold my paper up, as if contemplating the beauty of my own work, allowing her to see my answers.

Dave and I had driven each other to excel, and Courtney had pushed me almost as much. If Dave could be my best friend, despite our competition, why not Courtney? Dave's answer to that was always, "because she's a bitch."

My fantasy tonight was that we would do something vaguely sexual and anonymous, and afterward she would confess her identity and her obvious feelings for me. We would then have a wonderful high school romance, and I would make better decisions and avoid being an underachieving fuck-up who hated his life with a girlfriend he didn't dare leave. The causality between the start and finish was a little fuzzy, but I was damned sure succeeding with Courtney was the first step. Even if I didn't reach the expected finish line, I liked the look of the starting gate.

I killed time by observing my once-and-current classmates as if they had just stepped out of my memories. I watched Amber make excuses while Sidney pulled her away from the frustrated tailback, who had finally realized Amber was out of his league.

Heather was standing fifteen feet away, in what appeared to be a fake conversation. She had positioned herself so I had a good view of her, and her friend was laughing too hard at something Heather had supposedly said. That was the giveaway -- Heather could never make anyone laugh. I realized now she had been flirting with me months before we had started dating, and I hadn't noticed.

I watched Jessica bravely prevent the collapse of the gym's west wall by leaning against it. I would date her this coming summer, but she would prove too high-maintenance for me. She eventually would get her doctorate in political science and teach somewhere in California. I decided I hated her.

Sumbeech Carl had Scott the Hoople backed into a wall, jabbing him in the chest with a finger, apparently unhappy with the Osama costume.

Red Madison and Blonde Madison had decided to pretend the French Maid thing was planned, and were tandem-dancing to a throbbingly-repetitive electronica tune, now being spun by the DJ. The concept of two french maids with the same name appealed to identical-twin fantasies, and the Madisons were quickly surrounded by guys. Red Madison seemed to most enjoy the attentions of Snazzy Pete's dapper redneck.

Through the windows, I could see Dave and Sarah conducting phase two of their performance art in the parking lot. I smiled sadly. I hadn't realized how much I missed them.

At that moment, a gloved hand confiscated my cup of Coke, just as I was drinking. The glove's owner set it on the table, then turned and walked away.

My eyes followed, but my stupefied legs stayed rooted to the floor. Courtney had been gone for almost ten minutes, far longer than a mere face-freshening pit stop would entail. I saw Brittney watching Courtney from across the dance floor, appearing concerned. I sensed Brit didn't approve of Courtney's plan. Brit must be afraid I would recognize Courtney and spurn her out of spite.

When Courtney reached the double doors leading toward the school halls, she turned, glanced at me with a slight smile, and exited. I recognized a cue when I saw one and followed to see where this universe would take me.

I left the gym in time to catch a glimpse of a white skirt rounding a corner in front of the school office. I walked the halls of the school, and a hint of Courtney would await me around each turn -- a wisp of fabric near the football team's scant trophy case -- a flash of a heel across from Mr. Watley's butterfly collection -- a scent of Chanel near the stairwell -- each beckoning me further down the darkened corridors.

Near the art room, I began to suspect she had ditched me, but then I noticed a door was ajar in the storage room across the hall, with a faint light shining from inside. A bobby pin was in the lock. It had to be there for effect -- Courtney knew nothing of lock picking, but knew everything about where her mom -- the school nurse -- kept her keys. The bobby pin was just another piece of misdirection allowing Courtney to hide from herself. I opened the door and entered.

The room was stashed with half-completed art projects, paint containers, and shelves with every color of crepe paper. I even discovered the hiding place of Sarah's infamous painting of the Pope as The Pied Piper, coaxing a line of little boys into a dark, menacing cathedral. The art show had been canceled last year when Sarah refused to withdraw it. Sarah's mom had promised to destroy it if she brought it home, so here it sat, protected only by a lock, and the loyalty of Sarah's art teacher.

A small area of the room had been cleaned of artistic detritus, occupied only by a misplaced cafeteria chair and a cheap desk lamp, which was affixed to a nearby shelf with a clamp. The lamp illuminated the chair as if it were the target of a theatrical spotlight -- or an interrogation.

The room smelled of paint, plaster, and Courtney's Chanel No. 5. I heard a movement behind me and turned to see the door swing shut, revealing my elusive phantom in front of it. She sidestepped to block the door in an exaggerated fashion, with her arm stretching across the frame, and her hips shielding the lock. She knew full well I didn't want to leave, but was communicating her own mute wishes.

She had mercilessly teased me on the dance floor and had led me here so we could be alone. A seduction game was afoot, but nothing with Courtney was ever simple. I struggled to determine the rules.

Courtney closed her eyes and returned to her sinuous dance, slowly twirling and shifting her shoulders to match the undulations of her hips. She appeared lost in the rhythm of a secret song -- a phantom bride dancing to phantom music. Her eyes tracked me on the turn, and they seemed to plead with me, asking for... appreciation? Validation? Anonymity had exposed a streak of exhibitionism she hadn't known she had. She was displaying herself for a man she had always wanted, but to whom she did not dare give the power of potential rejection. Despite the safety of her disguise, I saw trepidation in her eyes -- she feared I would either see through her masquerade, or reject her anyway.




Might Have Been Ch. 03



Forget-me-nots and second thoughts live in isolationHeads or tails and fairytales in my mind

-- Green Day, Are We The Waiting

October 21, 2001

Sexual success is an addiction. I had slept with a dozen women in my life and could relive each first encounter with near-perfect recall.

I remembered wiping away the tears in Heather's eyes while we claimed each other's virginity. I kissed her on the lips and called her a goddess. She bit her lip and held me tight as I came merely fifteen seconds after I entered her.

I remembered the first and only time with Tiffany Sanchez, the summer after my second year of college. We weren't dating, but had found ourselves the last two people at an after-work party, flirting ourselves into a frenzy. I walked Tiffany to her apartment, and she fell into my arms at the door. With her hand stroking the front of my pants, she wanted an explanation. "Why are we doing this?"

"Because we're both drunk and horny," I replied.

She chuckled and pulled me into her apartment, then into her bed.

And I remembered Tasha -- the seductive desperation in her voice as she promised me sexual heaven -- keeping secret the knowledge it would cost me everything else I loved.

Amy and Courtney were now fixed into my memory as well. I knew I would relive the expression on Amy's face as I first entered her, with her eyes shut and her mouth open. Sarah had told me it was faked, but it was still beautiful for all that. Courtney's tango lunge indelibly joined my memories of Amara, Tiffany, and the others. I would not take away those memories for the world, but they weren't enough. I had tried to use both Amy and Courtney to fill a void inside, and had failed.

Staying with Tasha was difficult, but I had long accepted that leaving her would be a betrayal that would kill us both. If my fantasies were just dreams of escape, and not an actual wish, why had I imagined staying with both Amy and Courtney? Why had I considered throwing away the resonance array and living out a different life? I had told myself it was just another fantasy -- the thought of living with myself, if I left Tasha, was even more depressing than the reality of living with her if I stayed -- but in the light of day, I knew that was a lie.

Tasha was becoming insubstantial. Every time I thought of her, I was punished with feelings of guilt, failure, and self-loathing -- so I was thinking of her less and less. My more vivid memories of Amy and Courtney were also tainted by guilt and failure, but the pain was dimmed by the rush of conquest.

Amy and Courtney had me teetering between elation and despair, but I felt alive! Despair was a close friend, and Elation a beautiful stranger. Teetering between them was better than living as I had been for five years, huddling miserably on the couch in Despair's basement.

I first tried to tell myself that truth was a form of freedom, and almost convinced myself this is what buoyed me. Amy and Courtney had crushed my romantic aspirations, but there was liberation as well. I could cease remonstrating myself for having let them slip away ten years ago. I could stop romanticizing them as the path-not-taken, and accept the reality that they had never been possible. I had closure.

There was a certain truth to that, but I hadn't spent my recent waking hours reliving my sense of closure. I was spending it instead replaying the feel of Amy's tongue on my cock, or Courtney's legs wrapped around my hips. I had been laid twice in two days, matching the amount of sex I had received in the previous two years. I was ashamed to be elated by something so shallow, but I couldn't deny what sexual success was doing to me. Last night, I had bluffed Courtney for an hour, urging her further into her seduction than she had probably intended. It was as if the pre-Tasha version of myself had returned for a visit.

Sarah had mocked me twice for my self-pity yesterday, but everything was relative. My eighteen-year-old self had been confident to the point of arrogance. He had been the big smart fish in the small pond. Most of the jocks had been his friends since elementary school, he acted in theater with the art crowd, and wrote code with the science geeks. He was going places and knew it, but where he had failed completely with Amy and Courtney, I had partially succeeded. I had added ten years of romantic experience to compensate for arrogance, and seduced two women he had let escape ten years ago. There was victory in that. What Sarah saw as self-pity was merely the dying bleat of my own insecurities.

I was recalling how much I had enjoyed the company of Sarah and Dave. My conversation with Sarah yesterday had been a shot of adrenaline, mainlined into my soul. Watching their antics at the dance last night reminded me just how close we used to be. I now saw some of their behavior as pretentious affectation, and Sarah, of course, was still an ice-bitch with treason in her future, but damned if they still weren't fun.

This was a weird kind of therapy. I was feeling as if a ninety-seven pound weight of emotional dysfunction named Tasha had been lifted from my soul. The prospect of returning to her filled me with dread. I didn't yet see a permanent answer, but I wasn't going to care about that now. In fact, I didn't know if I ever wanted to return to her.

I wanted more. I would use the resonance array to continue my tour of my past romantic fuck-ups and see where they would take me. At worst, I would soon return to Tasha and my life would be no different from before. At best, I would learn from my mistakes and discover an escape from my trap, or find a paradise in an alternate universe with a different woman.

The sexual possibilities could also not be ignored. If I were honest with myself, everything else was secondary. How could I fantasize for years about the women who got away and not jump at the chance to make my dreams reality? I was not that kind of coward. (Rationalization is almost as big an addiction as sexual conquest.)

Sitting on the foot of my bed, I held the resonance array in my hands and pondered my options. I thought about the cute barista last week, who had smiled at me, and started a conversation when I bought coffee. No, she was just bored and friendly.

There was the woman with the laughing eyes and the red streak in her blonde hair, who had sat behind me on the New York subway six years ago. I had been standing, facing away from her, and she had been sitting with friends. She stared at my ass and pantomimed grabbing and biting me, causing her friends to giggle -- not realizing I was watching her actions reflected in the grimy subway window. No, that was a long shot. She was just having fun with her friends and would have been mortified if she had known I was watching.

I briefly thought about Crystal or Holly, but I glanced at the calendar on the wall and decided to do this chronologically. What had been my next missed opportunity after Courtney and the Halloween Dance? My pursuit of Courtney had taken me through December. In spring, I asked a flirtatious sophomore to prom. She had seemed smart and had large blue eyes I wanted to dive into like they were a serene tropical ocean. But she had no interest in me -- I was just a fashion accessory with a wallet and a driver's license. We had double-dated with Dave and Sarah, so the evening had not been a waste, but she was no prospect at all.

After prom had come graduation, followed by an interesting summer. One of the disadvantages of dating in a small town high school is the consequence of a breakup. When things go sour, your ex is in almost every class and is sharing your inadequacies with everyone you know. Many ignored the prospects in their class and instead dated people from neighboring high schools. I had done that myself a few times, but that all changed at graduation.

As soon as the tasseled mortar boards were launched in the air at the end of May, half the graduating class descended into a mad frenzy of dating and sex, hooking up with all the people they had feared to date during high school. They had full knowledge this was their last chance, and if it didn't work out, there was no worry about awkward moments in the cafeteria.

Red Madison and Snazzy Pete dated the entire summer and a couple months into college. Brittney hooked up with Dwayne The Impaler at a party. The same inexorable logic had me dating, in sequence, Jessica, Dani, and Heather. Jessica was a sweet girl I knew from the science geek clubs. Dani and Heather had been co-leads with Dave and me in the winter production of The Importance of Being Earnest (no one other than Sarah could play Lady Bracknell -- her minute-long apoplectic delivery of the "handbag" line brought hysteria, even though she did it different every night). Jessica and Dani had flamed out quickly, but my romance with Heather had lasted half the summer. No missed opportunities there.

Then I thought of the swimming pool, and I had my answer.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

One thing I have learned since high school is the power of a departure. I had seen a simmering version of it all summer long with my graduating class's dating frenzy. The ticking clock heightens the drama, and the knowledge of impending separation eliminates most of the consequences. When a goodbye is at hand, the pressure builds to just-act-dammit and almost any fling can happen. There is a reason half the romantic comedies ever made end in one character chasing another through an airport.

I hadn't yet come to this realization in August of 2002. I also wasn't as experienced with watching women flirt. Most of the other lifeguards had already departed for college, leaving only three of us: myself, Amber, and Sidney. We were all attending schools with a later start date, so we had agreed to work the pool on the last weekend of August. Because of my inexperience, I hadn't noticed Amber flirting with me, nor that Sidney seemed to be helping. Another reason for missing my shot at Amber was that Dave and Sarah split up the same weekend, just prior to Sarah flying to New York. I had been busy consoling Dave.

The conversation with Amber had been first. Amber and I had known each other since we were babies. Her father had originally been my dad's law partner, but had been appointed to the bench six years previously. Our families socialized, with backyard barbeques and the occasional joint vacation -- although there hadn't been one of those in years.

Amber was the closest thing I had to a sister growing up, but any sisterly feelings turned incestuous when she filled out in junior high, rapidly becoming the most beautiful girl in school. Her voice matured into an alto purr borrowed from 1940s Hollywood. Her perky smile became dazzling. Her large blue eyes turned sensuous while remaining kind, and her gawky, skinny frame became a breathtaking set of curves. She wore her blonde hair short during gymnastics season, but she grew it shoulder-length in summer, when the sun bleached it to a platinum sheen. I remembered the way she liked to let her hair hang loose in back, after tucking just the right side behind her ear.

She was also one of the sweetest people I ever knew. Amber liked everyone, and her sunny disposition was an impervious shield to all the slings and arrows of the cattier cliques in our high school. She was sexy and wholesome at the same time and was deservedly one of the most popular girls in school.

Sarah had once told me a story about Amber. Both Sarah and Amber had been cheerleaders for the high school football team. (The idea of Sarah as a cheerleader seemed incongruous, given her artistic nature and knee-jerk non-conformist personality. She was often mistaken for a goth, and the concept of a goth cheerleader made heads explode. When asked why she was a cheerleader, she herself would give different answers. Sometimes she would say that Sylvia Plath might not have killed herself if she had cheered for a football team. Other times she would make the questioner uncomfortable, with lusty descriptions of how football players' asses looked in uniforms, or she would launch into a tirade about personal stereotypes. Dave thought she just liked to fuck with people's expectations, but my own take was that cheerleading was the closest thing Monroe had to a dance line. Sarah was an excellent cheerleader and choreographer, and even used her love of martial arts to add novel routines. My favorite was where our cheerleaders pretended to rip out the hearts of the other team's cheerleaders and hold them up for inspection by the crowd, using fist clenches and a coordinated "BA-dum" pounded out by the band's bass drummer to indicate the hearts were still beating.) The cheerleading team had gone to Pizza Hut after practice. Jenny The Emo, one of the other cheerleaders, had been absent. Sarah had called Jenny and discovered Jenny had just been dumped by her boyfriend, and was despondent -- threatening suicide.

The Exquisite Sarah was at a loss, but Amber took the phone, saying in a matter-of-fact tone, "Jenny, why don't you come eat pizza with us instead? It'll be more fun." Jenny had arrived a few minutes later, amazing Sarah at the result of Amber's blunt, practical approach. Sarah hadn't thought anyone other than Amber could have pulled it off without sounding like they were mocking Jenny's romantic angst.

Amber and I moved in different social circles, so we rarely interacted in high school, until we both started working at the pool the previous summer. She was a good swimming instructor and was a joy to watch sunbathing during breaks, usually wearing a black one-piece bathing suit, cut high at the hips. It was a high-neck swimsuit, showing no cleavage, but her breasts were stunning in anything form-fitting, and Amber's black one-piece always clung to her as if it were expecting an imminent restraining order.

She only had one real fault. Amber was boring. While her grades consistently ranked in the top five in our class, you wouldn't know it if you talked to her. She could hold a pleasant conversation about the weather, the kids in the pool, or teaching techniques, but didn't seem to have more complicated thoughts. She had no opinions on politics, didn't seem to crack a book if it wasn't assigned in class, and her taste in art and entertainment seemed limited to Gilmore Girls. Every word from her mouth was aimed at making everyone happy and avoiding offense. She wouldn't even talk much about herself, which made our conversation very unexpected, when she initiated it that last Saturday of summer.

I had college lifeguard gigs that were demanding, but the job at the municipal pool was easy. Our real work was babysitting, preventing dangerous behavior, and slapping on the occasional Band-Aid when kids skinned their knees after running and falling on the concrete. I sometimes joked that lifeguards could be replaced with recordings that blew whistles and yelled "no running" at random intervals. I worked at the pool for two summers, and there wasn't a single water rescue in all that time.

Our weekend work schedule was a noon-to-eight shift, with two guards up at a time while the third watched the office. Shifts rotated every fifteen minutes, and once an hour there was a fifteen-minute break for the swimmers. Attendance dropped as the weather cooled, and sometimes the guards on pool duty were able to sit together on a bench and talk, as Amber and I had been doing.

"I heard you and Heather broke up." Amber was playing with one of the swimming rings we used in lessons for coaxing the little ones to get their faces underwater. She was wearing it on her ankle and spun it in circles like a hula hoop. Her glorious, tanned leg was fully extended, with all muscles flexed -- the better to create the right rotation and rhythm.

"Yeah, it wasn't going to last into college anyway, so I didn't want to prolong the agony." I was referring to Heather's incessant crying, but Amber seemed to misunderstand.

"I heard about that." She continued to twirl the ring around her ankle.

I divided my attention between her legs and the few kids swimming in the pool. "What do you mean?"

Amber covered her mouth and her face reddened. "Oh, I heard a story that Heather... um...hurt you... earlier this summer at a party."

Heather had gifted me with a horrific set of hickeys during oral sex when we were both drunk at a party at Dave's house. Dave knew we had been in his bedroom, and the next morning he deduced what had happened by my funny walk and by my conspicuous placement of ice packs. He made the mistake of telling Sarah, who treated gossip like currency, using anything juicy to find out other information in town. I hoped she received something great in return, as my story had spread like wildfire. Within a week, I even heard two corrupted versions, one with Heather's victim being the pitcher on the baseball team, and the other with poor Jessica playing the role of my oral mauler.

I had been pissed at Sarah for helping spread the rumor. In retrospect, it had been an early warning of how heartless she could be. Heather had been mortified when the story came back to her. Sarah apologized and made her peace with Heather over lots of shopping, but that hadn't stopped Heather from being nicknamed "Heather the Human Hoover" by some wag in town. (It wasn't Dave -- I checked.)

"Sarah told you that story?" I asked. Given the cheerleader connection, and Sarah's love of gossip, I suspected Amber had heard an accurate version of Heather's oral ineptitude straight from Sarah.

Amber's graceful neck and shoulders rippled in a shrug, refusing to confirm her source. I was surprised she had asked the question. It wasn't like her. My discomfort with Amber behaving out of character was probably why I gave a vague reply. "Yeah, I was in a little pain."

Amber stopped spinning the swimming ring and glanced at me, then mumbled, "I thought guys liked to be... you know... sucked."

"What?"

"Is that too personal? I'm sorry." Her face was pure crimson, and she stared intently at her foot.

"A little, yeah."

She frowned and repeated, "I'm sorry." She resumed spinning the swimming ring and changed the subject to college plans.

I know why I shut down the conversation. I didn't like talking about it. The story was very embarrassing to Heather, and I still cared for her enough to protect her. But it was even more uncomfortable having that conversation with Amber. She was a family friend and had a wholesomeness about her that made me limit myself to G-rated language in her presence. I had never even heard Amber swear.

With ten years of hindsight, I was convinced Amber was trying to get me to see her otherwise. She was trying to break out of her image, and the only reason she would do that on the last weekend of the summer, I believed, was if she were interested in me -- a conclusion made more likely by what happened next, when Sidney relieved Amber on the bench.

I hadn't known Sidney very well until I began working at the pool. Sidney and Amber were different in as many ways as they were alike. They had the commonality of gymnastics, lifeguarding, and a taste for college athletes, but where Amber was sunny, Sidney was sarcastic. Where Amber was wholesome, Sid was raunchy.

While Sidney had a body to rival Amber's, she stood in her friend's shadow because bad acne had slightly pock-marked her face early in high school. Sidney hid it under thick makeup, but she wasn't as pretty as Amber, and knew it. She compensated by wearing provocative clothes, forcing everyone's attention downward. That last weekend in August was no exception.

Amber was gorgeous in anything, but her swimsuits were modest. Sidney, in contrast, wore a blue knit bikini that showed off as much of her physique as decorum allowed. The top exposed at least a third of the surface area of her ample breasts, and while the bottom wasn't a thong, it aspired to be one someday. I couldn't sit next to her without my eyes being magnetically drawn to her chest, hips, or legs every few seconds. Management had fielded some complaints when Sidney wore this suit, but we knew who the prudes were, and Sid would cover up when she saw them coming.




Might Have Been Ch. 03



Sidney had a round face and long red hair that she liked to wear in a french braid. Her green eyes were usually hidden behind bug-eye sunglasses. She removed those glasses now to rub bloodshot eyes, indicating either not enough sleep, or too much alcohol. "God, I'm hungover," she said after a few minutes of small talk.

"Where did you go last night?"

"Amber and I drove to Mankato."

"You had dates?" They were both seeing Mankato State University football players and had previously mentioned visiting their boyfriends during August training camp.

"No, we just went to this seedy bar downtown. They don't card us there."

"Amber in a seedy bar..." My brain couldn't process that one. "How does she respond when some ex-con with biker tattoos starts to chat her up?"

"You just keep moving and don't let them buy drinks for you, and they leave you alone. We spent most of the time on the dance floor anyway."

"How do you avoid the tattooed ex-cons on the dance floor?"

"Oh, Amber and I danced with each other, and we gave a good enough show that no one interrupted."

"A show? This I've gotta hear."

Sidney made sure no kids were within earshot, and lowered her voice. "Okay, so Amber's dancing like she's doing a pole dance? Like strippers do?"

"They had a pole?" I asked.

"No, she was faking it -- she has the muscle control to hold her leg up in the air like it's wrapped around a pole. But then I put a dollar bill in her shorts, and she starts giving me a lap dance!"

"Get the fuck out of here."

"No! She was like grinding against me and everything! The bar starts cheering!"

"I can imagine." I really could.

"So then I tucked some bills deep into her boobs, and they cheered even louder!"

I glanced over at Amber, sunning herself, with a knee bent upward, catching the last rays of the summer -- the picture of Midwestern virtue. "Bullshit."

"I bullshit you not!"

A twisted part of me really wanted to believe her. "How long before you had to run for your lives to avoid getting molested?"

"Yeah, we left after that. The bouncer escorted us to the car."

"Smart bouncer."

"It was fun getting the guys all worked up." She held up the swimming ring that Amber had played with earlier and flashed a wicked smile. "We could have played ring toss with all the hard-ons around the room." Sidney nodded over to Amber, who was now walking toward us. "She's wilder than you think."

Amber relieved me, and I rotated to staff the office. I watched Amber and Sidney chat for a while, and that was it. The rest of the work weekend was uneventful. At the close of business on Sunday, we locked up the pool, hugged goodbye for the summer, and went home, leaving for college later that week. I never saw either of them again.

At the time, I was surprised by Sidney's story. I knew people could act different while drunk, but it was a side of Amber I couldn't imagine. Sidney and Amber both had reputations as cock-teases, but I had suspected most of the guys in question had only been wishfully thinking that Amber was interested, or they were blaming Amber for Sidney's actions.

As I thought back on the story over the years, the stronger my hunch grew that Sidney had been lying. Giving a mock-lesbian lap dance in a biker bar? That wasn't Amber. Sidney was laying out bait for my sexual fantasies, but I didn't understand why.

The only connection I saw was that Amber and Sidney were both trying to lead me to think about Amber in a more sexual way. Amber was boring, but I had often wondered whether that was a facade, and whether there were depths to her personality left unexplored. Later in life, I met several beautiful women who were somehow trained in adolescence to hide anything interesting about themselves. It was a form of child abuse, I thought, but they had been afraid guys would be scared off by a woman who was both beautiful and clever. A few grew out of it as they aged and gained confidence. Was Amber one of those girls with unexplored depths, or was she just not all that interesting?

I had missed something that day at the pool and had always wondered what it was. Now I had a chance to find out. In contrast to my expectations with Courtney and Amy, I felt I would be immune to disappointment this time. This was a long shot, and I would be happy if I merely satisfied my curiosity. I didn't have any lingering romantic feelings for Amber -- just a condescending fondness and a set of completely physical sex fantasies. Having convinced myself I would be immune to heartbreak this time, I pulled the resonance array from my dresser -- complete with the prepared power supply -- and set it on my desk. I connected the stripped wires to the array with electrical tape and plugged the power supply into an outlet.

Deep breath. Could I make it work a second time? I had spent most of the morning rehearsing what I wanted to say to Amber, and how I wanted to respond to Sidney's bullshit story. I had my Cunning Plan.

I focused on my memory of Amber spinning the swimming ring. It was easy, because the ring was shaped like the resonance array itself, and the image of Amber's tanned thighs and calves had already been seared in my memory for almost a decade.

Amber's voice floated up from my memory, asking, "I thought guys liked to be sucked?" I grabbed the array tightly and flipped the switch on the power supply.

The world shimmered and my nostrils stung with the acrid scent of chlorinated water.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

August 31, 2002

My eyes adjusted to the sun. It helped I was suddenly wearing a pair of Wayfarer knock-offs.

"Lance? Am I getting too personal?"

Eureka! I was sitting on a bench at the old municipal swimming pool, with Amber next to me. My hands were numb from the electrical current, and I was holding the resonance array. I casually tucked the assembly into the pocket of my swim trunks.

I was still getting my bearings, but started delivering the lines I had prepared. "No, that's fine," I began. "Heather didn't deserve to have those stories spread about her, but since they're out, I don't mind setting the record straight. All things in moderation. It's the most sensitive skin on a guy's body. Just like you don't appreciate your football-player-boyfriend going all Dracula on your neck and leaving you black and blue, Heather was doing far worse. It was her first time and she didn't know any better."

"What was she doing wrong?" Amber was throwing side glances my direction and spoke hesitantly. She was playing with the swimming ring again -- making it orbit elliptically in a figure-eight pattern around her ankle.

"Heather and I were both drunk at Dave's party. My memory is pretty hazy, but my pants were down around my ankles, and I remember teeth and believing I was being attacked by a giant leech." Making a joke out of it should put her at ease that it was okay to talk about this.

Amber laughed a little too hard and then whispered, "So she shouldn't have used her teeth as much or sucked in as hard?" Her face was red with embarrassment, but she mostly held eye contact.

Oh, the big mystery was that she just wanted advice on oral sex techniques. I was disappointed -- she hadn't been hitting on me after all. My experience with Heather the Human Hoover made me the foremost expert in town on how a girl should not give head. Amber knew me well enough that she was just able to work up the courage to ask.

Thinking about it more, I decided that couldn't be all. Why did she need to know in the first place? Why was she asking me, instead of someone like Sidney? Both girls had been dating college guys for almost a year. In a year's worth of dating, they must have given their lucky boyfriends all sorts of head. My curiosity was piqued.

I first answered her question. "Teeth are evil when it comes oral sex, unless you really know what you're doing. A little sucking is fine. Be a little more gentle than when you kiss a guy's neck, and you should be alright. Think kisses, licks, and lollipops, not a vacuum cleaner full of starving piranhas."

She laughed really hard at that, blushing furiously, and briefly grabbed onto my bicep before letting go and covering her face with her hands. It was adorable.

Your turn. "Amber, I don't mind talking about this with you. I can go into exacting detail about how a woman should use her tongue and lips when orally worshiping my manhood." (Her face turned even more scarlet.) "But isn't this a conversation you should be having with that boyfriend of yours? He would probably enjoy telling you what he likes and dislikes even more than I do."

Amber flushed with embarrassment and mumbled, "There's no boyfriend."

Interesting. "You broke up? When?"

She got more flustered. "No, no, I mean, um, there never was a boyfriend, for either of us. Please don't tell anyone else."

My curiosity was aflame, but I said nothing, waiting for an explanation.

She sighed. "Sidney and I made them up. Look, this is so embarrassing. You know my dad? Ever since he became a judge and everything, he's so concerned about his reputation. He wouldn't let me date. He was afraid I would get in trouble and embarrass him."

"The judge holds you in that much contempt?"

She missed the joke. "No kidding! But I would have felt like such a dork if I told everyone my stupid dad wouldn't let me date. Sidney had the idea of telling everyone we were dating two college guys from Mankato?" I had forgotten her habit of occasionally ending statements with the tone of a question. It had annoyed me in high school, but today it was cute. "We even drive up there together on weekends, but we just go shopping or catch a movie."

"So you haven't dated at all?"

"No," she said with clear regret.

"Sidney didn't date either?"

"She dated a few guys earlier in high school, but not this past year. She said high school guys were all immature jerks anyway?"

"It's true, we are."

"Not you, Lance! You've always been nice! And you aren't in high school any more." She touched my arm again -- her hand lingering this time.

"Correct on both counts."

She laughed like I had said the funniest thing in the world.

I reconsidered whether she was hitting on me. That hadn't been funny at all, and she had touched me twice now.

Amber continued talking. "So anyway, I'm heading to North Dakota State next week? Now I'm scared I won't know anything about boys, or dating, and I'll do something stupid, and everyone will laugh at me."

Ah. She didn't want people to gossip about her, the way they did Heather.

I spoke the rest of my thoughts out loud. "And you don't want to ask your girlfriends because they will be miffed you haven't been honest with them."

"Yes! You do understand! Sidney said you would."

Sidney was walking over. It was 12:30 -- time to switch shifts.

Amber stretched before she stood up, arching her back. I couldn't help glancing at her chest, watching her breasts stretch the black fabric to its limits. I forced my eyes to her face. "Amber, I would be happy to give you whatever coaching you need. What are friends for? We can talk more later."

"Thanks, Lance!" She scampered over to the office, and I watched her crack open a Diet Coke.

Sidney sat next to me and I listened to her recount the story about how she and Amber had lap-danced in a seedy Mankato bar. Hearing it a second time, I believed the story even less.

I asked a few more questions this time. "Which bar was this? My dad represents a few of them."

"Uh, I don't remember the name."

"Where was it in Mankato?"

"Oh, down along the river."

"Near Riverfront?"

"I don't remember which one. We were kind of drunk."

"Oh, I'm glad you got home alright. You should have called. I would have been happy to fetch you and drive you home."

"We weren't that drunk, now let me tell the story..."

By the end, I knew the story was bullshit. I decided not to call her on it, for now. If nothing further developed, I would ask later in the afternoon.

I also watched Sid more carefully. She was easy to watch. She had a pretty face, despite her complexion, with round cheeks made for smiling, which she did often, but her body was what drew the eye. Sid must have noticed the attention I gave her form, but she hid any reaction. She was friendly, and we joked, but there was none of the gentle teasing or bodily flaunting that I had seen from Amber. Given Sidney's usual cock-tease behavior, I figured she either respected me too much to tease me, or she just didn't find me attractive. That added more weight to the possibility that she had concocted her story to point me at Amber.

When Amber relieved me, I drank a Coke in the office and watched them. They were engaged in an intense discussion, moving quickly from agitation, to giggles, and then solemnity. They kept glancing in my direction. It appeared as if Sidney was trying to persuade Amber of something, but Amber wasn't sure.

"I see you're working with The Toothsome Twosome today."

With my attention focused on the girls, I hadn't seen Dave arrive. He would visit once a day, to steal one of my Cokes and chat.

I turned to greet him, smiled, and shrugged. I never called Amber and Sidney the Toothsome Twosome out loud. In anyone's mouth other than Dave's, it became a tongue twister, and not one person in a hundred knew what "toothsome" meant anyway.

Dave's presence was a convenient chance to test something. "What do you remember about the Halloween Dance last fall?" I asked.

"You mean the S&M thing?" He popped the tab on a purloined Coke. "Hard to forget it, when half the class refers to you as 'The Gimp' for the next six months, in revenge for all the names I concocted." He sat on the edge of the desk.

"Do you remember me hooking up with someone?"

"Not that you told me. You were still inside when we left. Did you hook up with someone? The Exquisite Sarah watches your love life like a hawk, and if she missed that, she'll be pissed."

I had been wondering which timeline I was in, after I jumped this morning. Was I in the August 2002 of my original timeline, or of the new timeline from my last two (subjective) days? I had my answer. I was back in my home timeline, unchanged except for whatever I would do today.

"What do you and Sarah have planned tonight?" I asked. Sarah had won a scholarship to Julliard in New York City. Her mother had family in New York, and had only been staying in Monroe so Sarah could complete High School. Sarah's Dad had moved out to California when her parents divorced, so Sarah wouldn't even have family around here. I had never seen Sarah again after she left, and it occurred to me that I had never even said goodbye to her, except in a nasty email I sent a few weeks into September, chewing her out for the way she treated Dave.

Dave was planning to study computer science at Madison. He had been accepted at MIT, which was within driving distance of New York, but his parents couldn't afford the tuition. Dave and Sarah had decided to break up rather than attempt a long distance relationship, and tonight was their last date.

Taking a pull from the Coke as if it were liquor, Dave answered my question. "Dinner at a Japanese restaurant in Rochester, and then a hotel. If we have time afterward, I'll stop by the Mayo Clinic for a physician-assisted suicide."

I had no response. Sarah was the one who insisted they end it, but I always thought Dave had surrendered too easily. If I had been in his shoes, I would have found a college near New York -- any college. When you found someone you loved, you owed it to them, and yourself, to do whatever was necessary to make it work.

Dave sighed.

"Are you driving her to the airport on Monday?" I asked.

Dave stood, restless. "No, her mother is taking her. I have to return her late tonight, and she made me swear I wouldn't see her tomorrow. The Exquisite Sarah needs to prepare for her trip, and wished to bid farewell tonight." I could hear bitterness in his tone.

"So what are you doing tomorrow?"

"Something that numbs the pain in my soul. Do they have opium dens anymore?" Dave had been reading George Eliot novels this summer, and was unconsciously affecting an accent more appropriate to someone wearing a top hat and cravat.

"No, but there are a few absinthe bars in Minneapolis."

"Really? Do they allow brooding?"

"The bouncers require you to show proof of melancholia at the door."

"I should bring The Exquisite Sarah. She would love it." He included Sarah reflexively, and once he realized the impossibility of that scenario, he flinched. "Fuck. I have one more day with her, and I'm not going to spend it moping."

"I thought you were going to brood, not mope." This sort of word game usually cheered him up.

"That's tomorrow. Today, I have one more chance to drink from the Cup of Heaven."

A surge of anger welled within me at his idealization of the pain of break up. Was he allowing their relationship to fail, just so he could compete when tortured artists got together and measured their dicks by seeing who had experienced the worst romantic loss? "Then why the fuck are you letting it end? Follow her to New York." My tone was an accusation, and I realized I needed to temper it with humor. "Become one of those guys who only acts to make a living, before they can fulfill their dream of being a waiter."

Dave gave a wan smile. "I suggested that very thing. She said if I did, she would dump me anyway."

"What?" The bitch! I knew Sarah had forced the issue, not even bothering to try a long distance relationship. That was bad enough, but I hadn't known this -- that she had turned down Dave's offer to follow her to New York. My feelings toward Sarah had moderated in her presence lately, but all the rage came back now, amplified.

Dave was taken aback by my obvious anger. "I'm the one getting stabbed through the heart, not you."

"You're right. Never mind." This was Dave's last night with her, and I wouldn't be a friend if I told him just what I thought of his Exquisite Sarah right now.

Dave threw the Coke can in the recycling bin. "On that discordant note, I must depart." He walked back to his car, shoulders hunched in misery. Despite his earlier protestations, he was starting his brooding a day early. I sympathized, but there was nothing I could do.

I turned my attention back to the pool. The swimmers' break had already been blown and was almost done. Amber and Sidney had stayed talking on the bench the entire time. I walked out to relieve Sidney, who stared meaningfully at Amber before heading in.

Amber gestured to the lifeguard chairs. There were more than twenty kids now, so we had to sit on perches instead of the bench. No more talking.

I wasn't able to talk to either Amber or Sidney for the next couple hours. We were either in the chairs, or alone in the office, except during swimmers' breaks, during which I was usually supervising the boys' locker room to prevent the towel fights and accidents that always occurred when dozens of kids roughhoused barefoot, on wet, painted concrete.

On one of those patrols of the locker room, I studied myself in the bathroom mirror. I had forgotten how good my physique had been. My shoulders, arms, and legs were strong from swimming. My normally brown hair was sun-bleached to blonde, and my skin had a carcinogenic bronze hue I had foolishly cultivated. I gazed at my reflection more with regret than narcissism, recalling I was out-of-shape and flabby in my real timeline. More bad decisions.

During the shift changes, Amber behaved oddly. As I was following Amber in our rotation, I could watch her descend from the chair twice an hour. She was taking longer than usual, always folding her towel first. She used baby oil to keep her skin from drying in the sun, and the towel kept the chair from getting greasy for the other guards.




Might Have Been Ch. 03



Amber would descend slowly, and I was sure she knew she was giving me a show. At the 3:15 shift change, she stopped halfway down the ladder. Amber inserted both thumbs under the elastic at her hips and ran them down along the curves of her ass, causing the black fabric to reluctantly leave her divine valley. She met my eyes immediately afterward with her usual bright smile -- but with an unexpected cocked eyebrow and gleam in her eyes. It was a look that bordered on sultry.

I hadn't known Amber could do sultry.

When I climbed into the chair, Amber hadn't yet left the vicinity. On a hunch, I flexed my own butt muscles twice in succession and was rewarded with a giggle from underneath. 

Gotcha.

Four o'clock approached, and I worked another shift in the office. I heard a car door slam in the parking lot and beheld Sarah striding toward me, dressed to the nines for her last date with Dave, in a black cocktail dress, pearl earrings, and pumps. She would have been radiant if she were smiling, but she wasn't.

This hadn't happened the first time I lived this day. I had changed something. "Sarah, to what do I owe the pleasure?" I suspected I knew.

"Dave respects you."

In my own timeline, I hadn't talked to Dave for years, as he had lost respect for me. There was no way Sarah knew that, but it still hurt. "I respect him."

But not me. I could see the thought in the narrowing of her eyes. "He called me two hours ago. He said he talked to you, and you seemed offended that I told him I wouldn't let him move to New York to be with me. So I spent most of the afternoon reliving that argument, on our last day together." She added a tone of warning to her voice. "This is supposed to be a special night, and it's not off to the right start, Lance."

"I tried to stay out of it, but I couldn't hide my reaction. I was surprised."

"Surprised? Why would you be surprised?"

"You're right, I shouldn't have been." I've known for years how cold you are.

"Damn right." Sarah looked closer and seemed to realize I had lobbed an accusation rather than an apology. "You still don't approve?" There was shock and disappointment in her voice.

What the fuck? "Why would I approve?"

Sarah appeared dumbfounded.

I didn't understand, but felt I needed to explain. "Sarah, he loves you and wants to prove it by moving to New York. You should respect his sacrifice."

Dismay and tears filled Sarah's eyes. She spoke through gritted teeth. "Lance, you know... nothing... of sacrifice."

Like fuck I don't. "Oh bullshit. You don't love him. That's--."

The cold fury in Sarah's eyes silenced me faster than a slap. Her knuckles went white clenching her purse, and her jawline turned into a steel bar. She was shaking. "How...dare..." She never finished her thought. Her heels tapped in staccato every step back to her car.

"Was that Sarah?" I hadn't heard the whistle blow for the break, but Amber was behind me.

I could only nod, still speechless from Sarah's reaction.

"What did you say to her? I think she's crying."

Sarah hadn't started her car and was hunched over the steering wheel of her Saturn. "She and Dave are breaking up."

"Aw, that's too bad. I always thought they were the perfect couple."

"Me too." I heard the ignition, and Sarah's Saturn spat gravel on its way out of the parking lot.

Amber departed to patrol the girl's locker room, and I was left to make sense of what just happened. I failed, but it didn't matter. Sarah and Dave's relationship had been dead for a decade, and Dave was happily married, living in California. I wasn't here to make sense of her, but to make sense of myself. Every second spent pondering The Eccentric Sarah was a second I could instead spend imagining what Amber and Sidney were planning.

The temperature dropped in the afternoon, and more kids left. During the five o'clock break, it was slow enough that the three of us did some diving. As gymnasts, Sid and Amber were a joy to watch, performing flips and gainers with athletic elegance. Amber had a one-and-a-half tuck dive that never failed to get applause from the kids. Sidney would thrust out her chest while she did a swooping half-gainer that had all the post-pubescent male swimmers praying her deceptively-robust bikini top would fall off. It never did, dammit.

I wasn't in their league. When I was eighteen, I held my own by doing dives the girls were afraid to try. I could do an inward flip off the three-meter board, where I always came within six inches of a concussion and a dozen stitches to my scalp. I remembered a scary moment where I actually felt my hair slap the diving board (the stupid things you do to impress tanned babes in bikinis). I hadn't tried those dives in ten years and had stronger self-preservation instincts now, so I stuck to a staple of jackknifes, flips, and swan dives that got the job done, but weren't pretty.

Amber encouraged me. "Too bad the high school didn't have a men's gymnastics team or a dive team. With some coaching and practice, you would have been excellent."

It was foolish of me, but I felt a sense of pride at that.

Sidney noticed. "Don't compliment him. He thinks enough of himself. You don't want to make his head swell even more."

"Never," I demurred while departing for the office. "My head isn't what Amber causes to swell." I heard silence in my wake, followed by sudden explosive laughter. I hoped they were laughing at my clever audacity, but turning to see would have ruined any hope my words had as an exit line.

During the seven o'clock break, I performed a maintenance sweep of the boys' locker room, and was met with the detritus of a toilet paper fight. I went to fetch a garbage bag, which were kept in a cabinet outside the women's locker room. As I rummaged for a bag, I heard Amber and Sidney talking quietly, in the midst of their own inspection of the girls' room.

"What if he doesn't want to?" Amber whined.

"Of course he wants to. He's a guy. And you said he offered."

"He did!"

What had I offered?

Sidney pressed her case. "What's the worst that could happen? He says no, we have an awkward day tomorrow, and you probably never see him again."

"I've known him for a long time. It might wreck our friendship."

"Amber, you haven't really been close since you were thirteen. So what do you think?"

Amber giggled. "Did you know he caught me staring at his butt?"

"Is that a yes?" I wasn't sure what I had done to earn this favor from Sidney, but she seemed to have my side.

Amber evaded by changing the subject to whether they should refill the women's tampon dispenser when there was only one more day to the season. I took that as my cue to leave and cleaned the mess in the men's locker room, optimistic for an interesting evening.

At eight o'clock, all the kids had left, and we were locking up. I glanced out at the parking lot and unwillingly thought of Sarah, and her irritating accusation that I knew nothing of sacrifice. I muttered something I thought was inaudible.

"They suck." Sidney was standing at the entrance to the girls' locker room.

"What?"

"You said 'sacrifice'. Sacrifices suck." Sidney appeared annoyed. "Would you mind helping us with something?"

"What's up?"

"Amber is a little embarrassed about it, so can we discuss it in here?" She didn't wait for an answer, and walked into the locker room.

I followed.

Amber was walking away from us when we entered, but she turned around suddenly and acted surprised, as if she had been pacing and we had sneaked up on her.

Sidney looked at Amber expectantly.

"Um, hi," was all Amber said.

"You wanted something, Amber?" I prompted.

"Yes, you remember how we were talking earlier? On the bench?"

"Vividly," I said with an encouraging smile.

"Remember when you said you could do... um... coaching? Can you do that tonight?"

Disappointment crushed my stomach. She just wanted more tips on oral sex. "My word is my bond."

Amber laughed. My assent seemed to release some tension out of her, but she just waited there expectantly.

I glanced at Sidney, who just shrugged with a sour look on her face. I looked back at Amber, who was wringing her hands, and bouncing on her feet.

"So, do you take your own shorts off, or um..." her voice trailed off. Her face was turning beet red and she mutely appealed to Sidney for help.

Realization dawned like a glorious sunrise. Coaching! I concealed my reaction, knowing that if I showed I had misunderstood, Amber would be mortified and run away.

"Maybe he's shy," Sidney pondered, with a little too much sarcasm.

Sidney's continued presence was no longer necessary, and was becoming an irritation. Why wasn't she leaving us alone? "Um, Sid, are you looking for tips too?" I figured that would cause embarrassment, and make her realize she was the third wheel here.

Sidney gave me a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes, the 'coaching' is for both of us." Sid had a knack for sarcasm, and there was an edge to her voice that pointed in that direction, but she wasn't leaving. She shifted her feet and stared up at me. "Amber told you about our fake Mankato boyfriends. We're both terrified we're going to start college next week knowing little or nothing about sex and men. This seemed the best way."

Something didn't sound right about that. Her tone was rehearsed, and I had trouble believing Sid was terrified of anything, much less sex. Was she just being supportive of her friend?

Sidney gave me that joyless smile once more. "I didn't think you would mind coaching two gymnasts on how to give a guy head."

True, dat. 

I was still confused as hell. Amber seemed to want me, but was too shy to take the lead. Sid wasn't shy at all, but if I let her near my cock, I was increasingly afraid she would bite it off. Despite what she was saying, she did not want to do this. Why then, had she been pushing Amber into it?

The best way to handle this was to take charge. "Okay ladies, class is in session. We'll skip the lecture, and go right to lab. Because this is an oral sex class, you will have to contrive other methods to receive an undeserved A."

Amber giggled, and even Sidney couldn't suppress a smile.

I put my hands on the waistband of my swim trunks. "First things first. I don't want to be the only one naked, and your lovely bodies will help put me in the mood to teach."

Sidney barked a laugh. "If you were any more in the mood, you would pop a seam." She pointed to where my erection was bulging out of my swim trunks.

Amber's eyes widened and she blushed.

"Fair is fair, girls. Strip." I pulled my shorts down, concealing any feeling of self-consciousness.

Sidney reached behind her neck and untied her blue bikini top. Ten years of imagining what was behind that bikini did not yield disappointment. Her breasts stood out firm and proud from her chest. She had a narrow waist and a short stature, both of which accentuated her volume even further.

Amber was staring at my crotch, speechless... and still wearing her suit.

"Amber. Naked. Now."

Her arms enfolded her chest and her legs crossed. She was acting as if she were already naked, trying to conceal herself. "Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"No, you don't." Sidney was adamant. "If he needs tits to keep his hard-on, he can stare at mine."

I saw resolve in Sidney's eyes, and knew she would call this whole thing off rather than make Amber do something uncomfortable, even so far as forcing my attention in her own direction to keep me content. How far was she willing to take this?

Sacrifices suck, she had said.

"Pants too, Sidney. I showed you mine. Let's see what's under that blue dental floss you wear on your hips." I kept a smile on my face to take the edge off my commands.

Sidney glared at me, but obediently removed her bikini bottom. She shimmied her hips to work it past her curves, and then kicked it off to the side. She stood facing me, revealing a shaved pubic mound and high-contrast tan lines. Her expression showed no hint of shame or nervousness, nor any discernible emotion at all. I had thought Amber might be the one with depths, but to look at Sidney was to stare into an abyss.

The abyss stared back at me, and cocked her head.

I felt admiration for her. She was being unpleasant, and she didn't want to do this, but she was standing up for her friend while still letting me save face. I respected that, and decided to earn her trust.

"Who wants to go first?" I asked.

Sidney glanced at Amber, clearly hoping Amber would go first, but not at all surprised when she didn't volunteer. Sidney forced a smile and stepped forward, as I had known she would.

"Amber, can you grab some towels, so Sidney can be more comfortable?"

Amber nodded, and left.

I lowered my voice and tried to get some answers from Sidney. "What are you doing? You don't want to do this."

She shook her head. "Amber won't do it if I won't, and she really wants to do this."

"What do you mean? You've been talking her into this all day."

Sidney's eyes widened, but she didn't deny it. "You don't know her like I do. She has to pretend to be persuaded to do things, if she knows her dad won't approve."

"Like sex?"

"Like dating and knowing how to suck a guy. Yes. Sex. Amber is trying to squeeze four years of sexual experience into one weekend, and you, Lance, are the lucky son-of-a-bitch she chose." She said the last with a slight smile, shaking her head in mock amazement.

From the conversation I had overheard, I knew Sidney had a role in this particular-son-of-a bitch being chosen.

"Why me?"

"She trusts you. Did you know that on that computer dating thing in high school three years ago, you were her number one match? She seems to think that is significant. Plus she has known you forever, and she trusts Sarah."

Sarah? I couldn't ask further, as Amber came back with an armload of towels. I still didn't have a complete answer. Why was it so important to Sidney that Amber have four years of sexual experience in one weekend, and where did Sarah fit in? Amber dumped the towels on the floor of the changing room and sat on a bench.

Sidney knelt, using the towels as a makeshift mattress.

"First, you want to touch it," I instructed.

Sidney's slight frown told me no, she really didn't. But she wrapped her hand around my shaft anyway.

Amber was leaning forward, her lips parted. "How does it feel?"

Sidney assessed my cock. "Hot. The skin is very soft and loose, but underneath it's hard." She gave it a single tentative pump.

The curiosity in Amber's face indicated she might be ready to follow Sidney's lead.

"Do you want to touch it Amber?" I asked. "It's okay."

Amber stood and approached me, staring in rapt attention. I couldn't take my eyes from her as she moved in. She brushed aside a stray strand of her platinum hair, and she was breathing hard. She was the image of an angel -- one about to spread her wings and fly for the first time -- or maybe fall.

As Amber began to kneel, I noticed Sidney glaring at me.

What? I asked silently.

Sidney kissed the air.

Huh?

Sidney made a show of french kissing the back of her hand.

I thought of what she had said about cramming four years of dating into one weekend. "Wait, Amber!"

Amber pulled her hand back quickly. I took it in mine. "Amber, have you ever been kissed?" I asked, and saw Sidney exhale in relief.

Amber lowered her eyes.

I hadn't thought much of her father before this, but at that moment, I hated him.

"Amber, come here. Everything has a proper order. You should be kissed first."

She gave a wide smile as she rose toward me. I took her face in my hands, and she closed her eyes and parted her lips. Our kiss started as soft, and as she began to respond, I lightly touched her lips with my tongue. Her mouth opened wider, and her tongue met mine.

"Ow!" Sidney's hand never left my cock, but her grip was too tight. I flinched away from my kiss with Amber.

Sidney withdrew her hand, chagrined. "Sorry."

Amber gave a mischievous laugh and asked, "Does that mean it's my turn? Can I touch it now?"

I didn't think that question needed an answer.

Amber's hand was trembling as she touched me. She glanced at my face, then gave an embarrassed smile and focused her gaze back to the task at hand. Her fingers wrapped around my shaft like she had seen Sidney doing, and she gave it a gentle squeeze. She giggled when I throbbed in response, and she copied Sidney's pumping.

"Like that?"

I nodded.

"What's that coming out the top? Oh my God! Did I make you..." She didn't want to say the word.

"No, its just some lubrication that comes out. It will take more action than that to make me come." I hoped.

Sidney still knelt on the towels, watching Amber explore me. I still couldn't read the expression on her face, but she no longer appeared angry.

Amber began pumping harder, feeling more competent. "What should I do next?"

"You wanted an oral sex lesson. When you're ready, you might want to try giving it a kiss. I showered after the diving. It's clean."

Amber was apprehensive, and she glanced at her friend. "It's Sidney's turn."

Sidney's smile at Amber was weak, but she took her friend's place, kissing my shaft in a way I could only describe as "chaste", despite the intimate location. She then gave one tepid lick and gestured that it was Amber's turn.

Amber scooted over and knelt in front of me. Her lips curled in a sly way, and she said, "kisses, licks and lollipops." She first gave me a light kiss and pulled away as if my cock might bite her. She then laughed, opened her mouth, and kissed my length. I felt her tongue lick me twice behind her lips, and I throbbed in response to the gentle caress -- she was already doing this far better than Sidney.

I let out a groan. "Oh, that's it."

Amber stopped. "I did it right?"

"Hell, yes! Don't stop."

Amber resumed her oral ministrations, kissing and licking me up and down the length of my shaft.

I prompted her, "Remember the 'lollipop' part."

Amber threw me a happy grin that crinkled her nose, and took the glans into her mouth. She made a point of keeping her teeth well away, but she wasn't doing much more than holding it in her mouth. I was sure she remembered the Heather stories, and didn't want to be the "Human Hoover".

"You're doing great. Keep with the licking, and move it in and out of your mouth."

She complied. I felt her tongue moving along my length while her head bobbed up and down. Her licks became longer and wetter, and I noticed she was moving her hips. She was kneeling, so I couldn't be sure, but it appeared as if she were rubbing herself against her own heels.

"Try using your tongue to circle the head," I suggested.

Amber nodded, and followed instructions perfectly. No wonder she had been an A-student. She also grasped the shaft to allow more control, and she placed her other hand on the back of my thigh, for leverage.

Pleasure swelled from within me. On her first attempt, she was giving better head than the vast majority of women I had dated, most of whom had done it many times before.

Oh God. "Amber. I don't think you need many lessons."

She freed her mouth and smiled, then turned to Sidney. "Sorry Sidney, I'm hogging all the fun. Your turn!"

Sidney's smile was less forced now, as she leaned forward and began kissing me again. She used her tongue more this time, licking every inch of my shaft and head. Oh, this was much better -- she must have learned from watching Amber.

"So, what happens when you...um..." Amber still didn't want to say the word, even as she watched her friend take me in her mouth.

"Say it Amber. You're almost nineteen and going to college. You can say the words."




Might Have Been Ch. 04



Nightswimming, remembering that nightSeptember's coming soonI'm pining for the moonAnd what if there were twoSide by side in orbitAround the fairest sun?

– R.E.M Nightswimming

August 31, 2002

Water flowed past me, and I thought of the nature of time – a common preoccupation of late. Time as a river was a metaphor so old, it was a cliché.

Time is a river I go fishing in, Thoreau had said.

I’m tired of living, and scared of dying, but Old Man River, he just keeps rolling along – Paul Robeson’s version of that song, in the first Show Boat movie, had sent chills up my spine.

The Alan Parson’s Project had time flowing like a river to the sea.

Several books and music albums had been called River of Time.

It was an obvious metaphor, probably dating back, like everything else did, to the Greeks. It was a cliché because it was so obvious. We are caught in time’s currents, and we go where it takes us. You can’t change your destination. You can’t do laps, using repetition and practice to improve the time and quality of the journey. Time is a river, not a swimming pool.

My stroke brought me to the wall. I flipped, and launched in the opposite direction, slicing through the water as if it weren't there.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Amber cuddled in my arms. Sidney sat on the bench, eyes brimming with tears, huddled underneath layers of towels. She still wouldn't look at me. I could only imagine the thoughts racing through her head.

She was in love with Amber, her best friend. She was a lesbian in one of the most conservative, Bible-thumping parts of the United States, and she was leaving for college next week. Was she worried everyone in town would discover the truth? I doubted it. Sidney was too full of self-confidence to give a shit about the opinions of people she would never want to see again. But how about her family? What would they think?

What would Amber think?

That was it, or at least most of it. Sidney was terrified I would narc on her to the people she cared about, and she wasn't ready for that.

I still didn't understand why Sidney had orchestrated tonight's actions. I considered whether it was some manipulative sexual game – that she couldn't directly have sex with the woman she loved, so she arranged a situation where she could physically love Amber by proxy – but that didn't seem likely. Sidney had participated only reluctantly, at least at first. I recalled her initial hostility, and the way she gripped my cock when I was kissing Amber. I also thought of the way she had protected Amber when I told Amber to undress – that didn't feel like someone who was prostituting her own friend for her own sexual pleasure.

No, something more complex was unfolding. Sidney had a secret, but she was still Sidney – a likeable, clever woman who had just done me the great kindness of participating in one of every man's sexual fantasies. What had she said earlier? Amber wanted to cram four years of sexual experience into one weekend, and I was the lucky guy? Sidney had influenced my selection as that “lucky guy”, and for the level of trust she had shown, I owed her an obligation.

I wracked my brain, trying to determine a way to comfort her without betraying her.

“You know we have to keep this a secret, right?” I hoped Sidney would understand the double-meaning in my words.

Amber nodded and giggled. “My dad would kill me and would probably find a way to have you declared a menace to society, and locked up!”

It was Sidney's reaction I wanted. She raised her head, and I saw red-rimmed eyes peering at me apprehensively.

I stared directly at her, and with all the conviction I could muster, I said, “Sex secrets stay private.”

Sidney took a deep, stuttered breath, releasing some of her inner tension. She gave me a weak smile, nodded, then said, “Amber I have to go home.” Sidney was dropped off at the pool in the morning by her mother, but Amber usually drove her home.

Amber was disappointed. “Aw, this was amazing! I don't want it to end!”

Neither did I.

Amber reluctantly pulled away from me, and started putting on her swimming suit.

I had an idea. “Sidney, I would be happy to drive you home. I live closer to you.”

Sidney seemed to recognize I was offering her a chance to talk, but shook her head. “No thanks. Amber and I have to discuss your performance behind your back.”

I smiled at that. Sidney was down but not out.

Amber flounced over to kiss me on the lips. “Don't worry, Lance. You were awesome!”

I pulled on my swim trunks, and followed them to the front office. Amber approached to kiss me once more, then headed for the door. “See you tomorrow, Lance! Last day of the summer!”

To my surprise, Sidney approached for a kiss as well. It was chaste, but she followed it with a hug and whispered, “You aren't going to tell her?”

“No,” I whispered back. I felt her relax in my arms. “Are you?”

Sidney suddenly grew tense again, and pulled away from me. Her tears returned, seeping through her closed eyelids. Her emotions were too strong to be restrained by any part of her body. She shook her head and muttered, “No, no, no...”

I pulled her close and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. Everything will be okay, the kiss said. Having experienced Tasha's epic emotional quakes, Sidney's comparatively reasonable meltdown was easy.

Taking a deep breath, Sidney relaxed again.

I wanted to discuss this more, but Amber called out, “If you want to stay longer, I'm game!”

Sidney's mouth quivered in a nervous smile, and she hugged me again. But this hug was different – the first genuine gesture of emotional affection toward me I had seen all night. “No, I'm just leaving.”

They walked to Amber's car, and I heard part of their conversation.

“What's wrong, Sidney?”

“Nothing. It's just sort of emotional, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Amber hugged her friend, and I saw Sidney hesitate before returning the hug, not trusting her own reaction to Amber's touch.

I walked toward the pool, wanting a late night swim.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

One of the few perks of being a lifeguard was the key to the pool, and permission to use it at night. We were supposed to swim with a buddy, but they weren’t going to fire me with one day left in the season. I hit the opposite wall, and flipped.

I hadn’t swum laps in five subjective years. It used to clear my head. It helped me think. Like everything else that was a part of me, Tasha had chased it away. You smell like chlorine. You're late. I miss you when aren’t with me. Why can’t you skip laps tonight and come straight home from work?

This wasn't a night to think of Tasha, but of Sidney. If she were in love with Amber, why had Sidney pushed Amber into my arms? Why had Sidney herself participated? Why did she take the ruse so far as to have sex with me?

The only answer I had received from Sidney was cryptic – that Amber wouldn't have participated without Sidney, but that didn't explain why it was important to Sidney that Amber participate at all.

I was glad it was my present-day self coping with Sidney's troubles. If the same events had unfolded nine years earlier, I would have said something like, You're a lesbian? Cool! Can I watch you and Amber make out?

While I had that exact same thought tonight, I knew better than to say it aloud, and was able to understand and sympathize with Sidney's predicament. I hadn't had any openly gay friends in high school (although there were a few I suspected), but had enough gay friends and colleagues in my present to know how emotionally traumatic coming out could be.

Clearing my head wasn’t enough. I still couldn’t puzzle it out. I had earlier planned to grab the resonance array, and leave after the end of the day, but I decided to see what would happen tomorrow.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

September 1, 2002

Stay with me. I heard lust emitted in short gasps, to the rhythmic accompaniment of bed springs, and I opened my eyes.

A faint blue light emanated from the top of my dresser. I investigated, and realized it was the resonance array, coiled around a circle of light that blinked at me like a blue eye. I reached out to seize it, and the array enlarged – or I shrank – and its torus was now the width of my fist, and covered in scales. It slithered in my grasp.

I followed the curve with my eye, and noticed that what I thought was one of the array's crystals, was in truth a malevolent, reptilian head, holding the end of its own tail within the prison of its fangs. Ophidian eyes stared at me, unblinking. I somehow knew the head was going to strike. I stepped back...

…and I woke up.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

My father was reading the business section when I came downstairs the next morning. Mom was leaning against him, her feet resting on the armrest of the couch, reading a collection of Edgar Allan Poe short stories. My father's arm embraced her. My parents' open affection for each other had embarrassed me when I was in high school. It was a few years before I realized how lucky I had been.

“How is the portfolio going?” I asked my dad. My mom had told me a few years ago (a few years from now?) that dad had taken a massive hit from the dotcom crash, but hadn't told anyone how bad it had been.

“Recovering, but I'm thinking of making changes. I have a few thousand shares of Apple I'm going to dump.”

“What’s it going for?”

“Eleven a share.”

Holy fuck. Apple had been selling for $500 a share, last I checked. “And you want to sell?”

“They make good computers, but this expansion into the music market is trouble. The company has gone to hell since Jobs came back.”

Keep the stock. You will be a millionaire, I said... or I tried to say. No words came out.

Buy credit default swaps and short Bear Stearns, Lehman Brothers, and AIG at the beginning of 2008.

Giants over Pats in Super Bowl XLII.

Nothing. My thoughts turned less mercenary.

The day after Christmas in 2004, hundreds of thousands of people are going to be killed in the Indonesian Tsunami.

Katrina.

There are no WMDs in Iraq.

It was like my mouth wouldn’t obey me.

“I would love one of those iPods for my birthday, or Christmas.” I was able to say that. It seemed the best I could do.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

A half-dozen kids were already lined up in front of the pool doors, anticipating the last day of summer, when Sidney and Amber arrived shortly before noon. I had hoped they would arrive early, so I could talk further with Sidney, but she was avoiding me. She also hadn’t answered her phone or returned my calls. The only consolation was the smolder in Amber's eyes as she greeted me, a promise our weekend adventures weren't finished.

By the time we had prepped the pool, we had a long line of kids. The weather had warmed since yesterday. This wasn't going to be a day where we could talk on the bench. Sidney and Amber took the first shift on the chairs.

Sidney exited the women's locker room, wearing the traditional women's fire-engine-red one-piece lifeguard uniform, with a white cross on the front. It was a far more conservative suit than the skimpy knit bikinis she usually wore. The men who worked at the pool, including me, usually wore the equivalent standard-issue red trunks, but the women almost never wore their red and white “Swiss Army Suits”, as they called them. I had once asked Amber why, and she had explained women would never all wear the same outfit to the same location, unless you put a gun to their heads. Management having a no handgun policy, the girls wore what they wanted.

Amber was wearing a suit today I had never seen before, and it presented her as the human avatar of the goddess of sex. The top consisted of two overworked triangles that flaunted the hills of her breasts, while simultaneously levitating them. The bottom was cut in a deep V, with the sides riding up impossibly high on her hips. While the top was tied with string, the bottom was held together by elastic and a smidgen of modesty. The suit accented every soft curve and firm muscle on Amber's gorgeous body, while appearing to extend her legs and flatten her stomach.

When I saw her, my breath caught in my throat and I felt the dizzying swoon I only experience in the presence of truly beautiful women.

I wasn't the only one thus affected. Sidney's discomfort was obvious. She was trying not to gawk, so she stared at me instead, but since I was staring at Amber, that also made Sidney uncomfortable, and she just blushed and made a beeline for the far lifeguard chair.

Amber gestured for me to approach, before she climbed the near chair. She handed me her bottle of baby oil, and asked me to do her back.

I happily agreed. “New swimsuit?” I poured oil on my palms, and rubbed my hands together to add warmth before application.

“No, Sidney helped me choose it last summer, but I never dared wear it.” Amber turned her back, and raised her arms to lift her hair away from her neck.

“Really, why?” I rubbed oil on her neck and shoulders. I noticed Sidney frowning at us from her perch. Normally she had the privilege of oiling Amber's back.

“It's... um, kind of revealing,” Amber replied.

“Why wouldn't you dare wear it? You have a beautiful body.” I applied more oil, and my thumbs traced her spine, as my fingers kneaded her smooth flesh.

Amber stepped toward me, standing uncomfortably close for a public place. “You think so? Thanks. I didn't feel comfortable wearing it.”

“So why do you feel comfortable today?” I attended to her lower back.

She turned just enough to make eye contact and show me a smile, but said nothing. She stepped away and climbed the lifeguard chair. At the top, she turned to the west. “According to the news, there's a cold front coming in. Might be a storm this afternoon.” Her lips shifted slightly to form an enigmatic smile. “We may have to close early.”

“That would be a shame,” I lied, and headed back to the office, where a line of kids waited for me to take their money.

When Sidney relieved me on the shallow-end chair for the 12:30 shift, I tried to get answers.

“Sidney, what's going on?”

She wouldn't look at me. Instead, she played with a scrunchie, twisting it into a figure-eight pattern, before folding it back on itself to fix her red hair into a ponytail, instead of her usual french braid. “You got sucked off by two drop-dead gorgeous women, and then had sex with....” her voice trailed off.

“A friend?” I completed for her. I had now dismounted the chair, and she began to climb.

Her laughter was bitter. “I'm sorry for misleading you.”

Sorry? “No, no, no. You have no idea what a relief it is to be able to cross 'have sex with a lesbian' from my bucket list.” I got the word out in the open, with no one else close enough to hear.

Her laugh was genuine now, and she met eye contact. That was a good sign, even though I could see pain in her eyes.

“You have been with guys before,” I said. “That wasn't the first time for you.”

Sidney grimaced at the memory, which I tried not to take personally. “I did it a couple times, trying to convince myself I wasn't into girls. It didn't take.”

“So why last night? Why did you have sex with me?”

“Penance.”

“Ouch.”

She belatedly realized how it sounded. “I didn't mean it that way. Go relieve Amber. If she doesn't get her Diet Coke she will get cranky. Shoo.”

I shooed.

Sidney avoided all other attempts to engage her in conversation, but I made headway with Amber herself during the one o'clock break. Sidney volunteered to run to the bank to get some change. This left me alone in the office with Amber, who played footsie with me under the desk.

“Sidney has seemed a little down the last couple of days. Is anything wrong?” I asked.

“She's being silly.” The manipulations of her foot against mine affected me less than watching the flow of her taut leg muscles.

“Silly how?”

“She thinks it's her fault I didn't date in high school.”

“I thought it was your dad's?”

“That's what I keep telling her! But she thinks instead of suggesting fake boyfriends from Mankato, she should have covered for me.”

“Covered what?”

“You know how girls cover for each other all the time? 'No, she wasn't with that asshole Lance, she was staying at my house.' 'Here Lance, I'll call Amber. Once we get her on the phone, I'll hand it to you, so her parents won't know it’s you calling.' That sort of thing.”

“And Sidney feels guilty because she didn't offer to do that?”

“Silly isn't it?” Her foot had worked its way to my thigh, and she had me hard again. I had unleashed a monster last night.

“So why didn't she cover for you?”

“She says she didn't think of it. But neither did I! So how is it her fault?”

“Is she trying to make it up to you?” I asked, remembering Sidney had mentioned the need for penance. “Is that why she was encouraging you to seduce me last night?”

“Seduce you?” Her foot slid to my crotch. “Oh Amber, I'll be happy to coach you on how to give head. Amber, why don't you come over here and lick me.” She raised her eyebrows and displayed a sly smile as her toes felt my erection, and she massaged me with her foot.

My eyes rolled back in my head at the sensation of her toes fondling my cock, but I resisted the urge to take her on top of the desk. “I concede the seduction was mutual. Now, we need to blow the whistle, and I won't be able to stand for another five minutes, without traumatizing everyone in the pool.”

Amber stood. “Do I really get you that excited?”

“Amber, you could wear sweatpants and a wife-beater shirt and still be the hottest woman in town. In that swimsuit, you would win the state and have a shot at the nationals.”

She bent over, and placed her hands on her knees, which pushed her tush out and her breasts together. The sexy pout on her face made the image complete.

Sidney chose that exact moment to return from the bank, arriving just in time to see Amber pose like a swimsuit calendar model. Sid stopped and stared.

“Amber is practicing for next year's Sports Illustrated,” I explained.

Sidney just grunted.

Amber laughed and headed for the chairs, blowing her whistle. Sidney followed. Amber's answers had been enlightening – Sidney was feeling guilty because she hadn't volunteered to help Amber sneak around her father's injunction on dating. Sidney had told Amber she hadn't thought of it.

If true, Sidney had no reason for guilt, but I was certain it wasn't true. Instead, Sidney hadn't encouraged Amber to date because Sidney had wanted to spend time with Amber herself. She had been selfishly denying Amber a normal social life, and with Amber complaining about how she would be sexually stunted when she started college, Sidney felt guilty, and was making amends.

I still didn't understand why Sidney had sex with me. Nothing explained why a lesbian would ask me to fuck her. When I had asked last night why she was participating, Sidney had only responded that Amber wouldn't do anything without Sidney, but that was no answer at all.

Or was it?

I sorted through my vivid memories of last night's events. Amber wouldn't undress until Sidney did first. Amber wouldn't touch me, perform oral sex, or touch herself in front of me until Sidney did all of them first. Is that why Sidney fucked me? Leading Amber by example?

True, I hadn't had sex with Amber after Sidney, but events had been interrupted. Did Sidney have sex with me as one more step in her game of follow-the-leader, and I had interrupted that game?

I was awed by the full realization of what that meant. Sidney was putting Amber's happiness in front of her own, going so far as to help Amber have sex with me. She actively participated in the act itself to make amends for her prior selfishness. She had sat there and watched the woman she loved be touched and kissed by someone else, out of penance. If I were right, it was one of the most beautiful acts of self-sacrifice, friendship, and compassion I had ever seen.




Might Have Been Ch. 04



Sacrificing one's own happiness for another was something I understood too well, and respected deeply, but Sidney put me to shame. I had sacrificed for Tasha, but had to admit my motives were selfish. Sacrifices kept Tasha happy, and they had once made her desire me. Sidney's sacrifice, in contrast, was beyond selfless. She was doing her own interests active harm, with the knife further twisted by having to watch and participate.

Sacrifices suck, Sidney had said yesterday.

Not if they have meaning, I thought.

I heard the fizz of an opened pop can, and turned to see Dave standing at the refrigerator, slamming one of my Cokes. His eyes were sunken and bleary. His hair was unkempt. I didn't think he had slept last night.

“You look like you need a man's drink,” I told him.

He held up the can. “A caffeinated beverage, by any other name, would taste as sweet.” His voice was raw, and he choked on his words. “I'm a single man, now.” He sat in the chair Amber had just vacated.

I studied the cash register, letting him recover his dignity. “You're a free man, you mean – once more at liberty to join the hunt! The girls in Madison won't know what hit them.”

“Hunt for what? The Exqui... The Ex-Girlfriend Sarah is... special. You know that.”

I said nothing, knowing Dave would not deem it a favor if I said what I thought of Sarah right now. The contrast between Sidney's actions, and Sarah's refusal of Dave's offer to move to New York, put the two women in sharp relief. Sarah's actions were cynical and petty in comparison.

Dave misunderstood my silence. “You love Sarah as much as I do.”

Huh? “Maybe once, but not for a long time, and never as much as you do.”

“But you loved her.” The statement threatened to be an accusation if I answered wrong.

“Not in the way I think you mean. She's been your girlfriend as long as I've really known her.”

“She isn't my girlfriend anymore.”

“What are you saying?” Was he giving me permission to go after Sarah? I recalled him coming to the pool after their breakup nine years ago, but I didn't remember this conversation. Yesterday, I had vented at him about his breakup, which I hadn't done before. Did that spark a different reaction today?

“I again offered to cancel my Madison plans and follow her to New York. She told me again she would dump me if I did. I don't think she loved me. This was just a convenient time to ditch me.” He looked miserable.

“Did you tell her that?”

“Yes, and I heard her mutter your name under her breath.”

I told him of Sarah’s visit to the pool yesterday. “She was furious at me, and based on her reaction, I think I was wrong. She loves you.”

“Then why is she no longer my girlfriend?”

I had no answer.

Dave offered his own. “You.”

“What?”

“You should hear her sell you to other girls, trying to get you off the market so she won't be tempted. 'The smartest guy in the school', 'rapier wit', 'swimmer shoulders', 'so self-confident it's a crime'. She threw Amy, Heather and Dani at you, and was spinning the same sales pitch to Sidney and Amber last week. I'm just the guy she settled on before she met my best friend, after which it would have been too awkward to switch.”

“You're selling yourself short.”

“I have reason to.”

“You have reason not to. She dated you for two years, not me. She sets me up with girls because she wants me? That doesn’t make any sense. I never, ever made a play for Sarah.”

“But you wanted to.”

The accusations brought out anger, which I tried to direct at the proper target. “You're hurting right now. I get that, but Sarah is the one treating you like shit, not me. Blame me when I actually do something wrong.” Like break off contact with you, because of my own psycho girlfriend.

“Well, I'm no longer in your way. Good luck.” He stood and moved toward the door, pausing for one last comment. “You will know I was right if she shows up to see you today.”

“Fat chance. You didn’t see how pissed she was yesterday.”

I watched Dave walk back to his car. His last statement didn't concern me much, as I remembered enough from this same day nine years ago to know that Sarah hadn't seen me before she left for New York. But I was saddened and angry just the same. I was angrier still at Sarah. If she didn't love him, she should have the decency to say it, and stop the torment. If she did love him, she should have accepted Dave's offer to move to New York to be with her. It was that simple. If there was one thing I had learned from Tasha, it was that Love was a jealous god, who required expensive sacrifices on his altar.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Sidney ducked out during the next swimmers' break as well, saying she had to fill her gas tank. It was a weak excuse.

Sitting on the stand for the previous half hour, I had time to think. I had an idea of how I could help Sidney and repay my debt to her, rewarding her sacrifice. I had a Cunning Plan, but I needed Amber's help.

Amber wanted an excuse to close the pool. We were required to close if we heard thunder or saw lightning. The storm was coming, but hadn't hit. Amber stared at the clouds, and shushed all the kids so she could hear the first rumble, but so far, no storm. I knew she wanted to continue our coaching session from yesterday. She hadn't said anything explicit, but the sexy bikini, the foot-job during the last break, some offhand comments, and the way she was staring at the sky, all screamed that she wanted to close the pool so we could consummate her sexual awakening.

It was fascinating and flattering to watch Amber’s sexualization. She was flaunting her bikini-clad body. She would drop things in front of me, bend over to retrieve them, and glance behind to see whether I was watching. Climbing down from the lifeguard chair, she had twice “tripped” and fallen into my arms, giggling. Every time I passed her, she made a point of touching me – adjusting the position of the whistle around my neck, or re-aligning a stray hair. When we sat on the chairs across from each other, she seemed to be staring at me, and I saw her rub baby oil on her breasts, legs and stomach far more often than was necessary, causing a case of priapism so severe I had to carry a towel for concealment.

I wanted the pool to close as much as she did. She had experienced her first orgasm yesterday at my hands, and if I were right that Sidney had been playing “follow the leader”, Amber would be screwing me within minutes of the pool being closed.

Bring on the storm.

“Amber, the way you're watching the skies, it’s almost like you want lightning to strike.”

She smiled, and blushed. “Maybe.”

“But if that happens, we have to kick the kids out, and then hang around here for at least an hour to see if the storm passes.”

Her smile grew bigger. “We would have to do something to pass the time.”

“How about solitaire?”

“I had enough of that yesterday.” Her cheeks turned scarlet.

Wow, Amber had just made a masturbation joke. Feeling like I was staring at a chess board, I saw an opportunity to steer the conversation, and took it. “Just once by my count,” I said.

Amber held up four fingers, staring at her feet.

“What? Last night?”

She nodded. “And once this morning.”

“And who were thinking of?”

“Guess.” She studied her toes.

“You were fantasizing about me?”

She looked up at me and smiled, before dropping her gaze again.

“What did you fantasize about?” I asked. “That I touched you again?”

“That's what I thought of the first time. The next two times, it was more.” She was slowly rubbing her legs together, and her hand had moved to lie across her chest.

“More?”

“You know...” Her hand was drawing little circles around the top of her right breast as she recalled her fantasies.

“No I don't. Tell me.”

“Uh, uh. Your turn. Sidney said what we did last night was every man's fantasy. Is that true? What do you have left to fantasize about?”

I told her. Knight to c3.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Sidney returned just as the first bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. Amber was on her feet, blowing the whistle, before the thunderclap even arrived. “Everyone out! The pool is closed!”

The kids knew the drill, but they didn't like it. Kids usually delayed their departure with hot showers, but Amber shut off the hot water valve to spur them on their way. We had them all outside the doors within five minutes.

As soon as the last kid was out of sight, Amber was in my arms, kissing my neck and lips. I eagerly returned her attentions, as her hands snaked around my back to grab my ass, and she pulled me close to press herself against me.

We were interrupted by Sidney's coughing. Sid had her gym bag in her hands, and was standing near the door. “Amber, give me the keys to your car, so I can go home. Call me if you need a ride, or if you re-open.”

“No, Sidney, you can't leave! We're going to get more 'coaching'!”

“Amber, it's okay. It's your turn now. You've been on the pill for a month, and you saw everything last night. You'll do fine.” There was sadness in her eyes as she reassured her friend with a wan smile.

“Wait, we wanted to ask you something,” Amber said.

Sidney's desire to leave was obvious, but for Amber, her patience appeared infinite. “What?”

“Lance and I were discussing fantasies during the last break, and he says there's a fantasy every guy has? And this is the perfect opportunity to do it? And since we're trying to get more experienced sexually, I agreed, and said I would talk to you.”

“You don't need me for his fantasies, Amber.”

“Um... we do for this one. His fantasy is to watch two women, you know, kissing and... stuff, before the guy joined in. I said I would try it, and that I would ask you. I mean, we do almost everything together already.”

Sidney dropped her gym bag, and closed her eyes.

Queen to f3. I would have given anything to read Sidney's mind. I saw a complex array of emotions play out across her face, with her fighting to suppress half of them. She took several deep breaths.

“Sidney?” Amber asked with concern. “You don't have to if you don't want. It sounded kind of fun, but we knew you might be uncomfortable, and it’s okay if you still want to leave.”

Sidney finally spoke, but still had her eyes closed. “Amber, step outside for a minute. I need to talk to Lance in private.”

“Um, okay.” Amber put her fingers to her mouth, as if she were biting her nails, and made a funny “oh shit” expression, before ducking out the front door.

Sidney opened her eyes, approached me – and slapped me across the face. Her lips were trembling in barely-suppressed rage and her red hair blazed like fire.

Her reaction killed the laughter that had been dancing in my eyes.“I thought you might take it better than that.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” she demanded.

I had considered this reaction possible, but unlikely. I knew Sidney was protective of Amber, and might not see this the way I did, but who would think twice about turning down a chance with Amber? “I'm returning the favor,” I answered.

Her eyes were threatening tears, but there was something else there – fear. “I can't believe I trusted you! You're fucking around with my emotions, and hers.”

“No more than you did yesterday.”

“That was different! You aren't looking out for her. You don't...” her voice trailed off.

“Love her?” I finished.

“Oh God.” She nodded.

“That makes the chance all the more important, Sidney. If you don't want it, you can say 'no', and walk to the car.”

“You know I want this – more than anything in the world.”

“Then say yes.”

“I don't want it as part of some guy's sex fantasy.”

“I'm not sure why a third person getting something out of it makes it worse.”

“Because it should be private! And she's doing it for you, not me!”

“Are you sure?”

“She'll think I'm a freak.”

There was the fear. “How do you know?”

“You saw how she lusted after you last night.” Her lips tightened in remembered resentment. “She was sucking your cock like cum was crack. She's into guys.”

“I'm not sure Amber knows what she wants. She seems into experimentation. She didn't hesitate when I suggested this.”

Sidney hugged herself protectively. “Oh God, really?” Her lower lip quivered again, this time with fear, not anger.

“I swear. Do you want to be remembering Amber ten years from now, wondering what would have happened if you had ever tried? This is your perfect chance. If Amber doesn't enjoy it, you can just pretend your enjoyment was all part of an act. I've got your back.”

“This isn't how it was supposed to be. I'd given up on her. I was trying to make it up to her for keeping her to myself all year.”

“You did make it up to her.”

The glare was back in her eyes. “You don't know how hard it was to bury my feelings the first time. You're dredging them all up again. I don't know if I can bury them again. What are you doing to me?” The almost-tears were back.

“Sidney, you're making this more complicated than it needs to be. It’s about choices. I'm willing. Amber is willing. What about you?”

Sidney closed her eyes, hesitated, and nodded. She opened them, and slapped me again.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“For screwing with my head, just so you can get your rocks off. You think you're so fucking clever, Lance, and you can talk circles around me, but this is all about you. You kept my secret this morning, and I trusted you, and now you're using me. Fuck you.”

That hurt. I didn't think what she said was true, but I hated the fact I wasn't certain.

Sidney composed her face into a blank mask and let Amber back in.

“So what were you guys talking about?” Amber asked upon entering.

Sidney had a ready answer. “I wanted to make sure Lance knew the consequences of telling anyone about this.”

“Lance knows how to keep a secret. That's partly why we asked him. Remember what Sarah said? She said all the Heather rumors were her fault, not Lance's, and that Lance never tells secrets even to his best friends.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to be sure,” Sidney said.

“But why couldn't I stay?”

Sidney didn't seem to have an answer there, so I stepped in. “She used words nice girls shouldn't hear, like 'castrate', 'disembowel', and 'defenestrate'.”

Amber frowned. “Defenestrate?”

“To throw out of a window.”

“Oh.” She gave the windows to the office the once over. “Let's go the locker room again. No windows there.”

During the rousting of the rugrats prior to closing the pool, Amber had thrown down another bed of towels on the floor. I loved a woman who knew how to prepare for sex.

Sidney took the initiative. “Lance, this is your fantasy, what's first?” I could see right through her. She badly wanted to get started, but needed it to appear my idea. I knew Sidney would gladly follow my sexual orders, if they gave her an excuse to do what she so desperately wanted. Amber was the real wild card. Her naivete seemed to leave her clueless about kink, but there was no telling where she would get uncomfortable, and suddenly draw a firm line.

I watched the two of them staring at each other. Both of them were nervous, but for different reasons. They were close friends, but this was going to be a new level of intimacy.

“Why don't you two start by touching each other?” I took a seat on the bench.

Amber turned to face Sidney, and gently poked her shoulder. Amber laughed.

When Amber turned to see if I thought it was funny, Sidney's eyes flashed a warning.

“I guess I need to be more clear. Amber, caress Sidney's cheek.”

Amber extended her hand, and gently ran her fingers down the length of Sidney's face. Sidney blanked her expression, keeping her emotions bottled up, as she had done last night. One of my goals today was to pop the cork on that bottle. “Sidney, the whole fantasy is better if you act like you're turned on when she touches you. If you need help, just imagine she's me.”

That earned a glare, but I saw amusement behind it. She was beginning to appreciate the absurdity of it all. Oh what a tangled web we weave...

“Amber, use both hands,” I commanded.

Amber held Sidney's face in her hands, and ran her fingers along Sidney's jawline and hair. Sidney closed her eyes, and leaned into Amber's touch.

“Much better Sidney. Now Amber, try kissing Sidney.”

Sidney opened her eyes. “Why are you giving Amber all the orders?” Sidney was acting defensive, but I suspected she was worried Amber would get suspicious if I played favorites.

“Because Amber won't bite my dick off when I tell her what to do.”

Amber nodded. “We practiced that yesterday. No teeth.”

Sidney laughed, another sign she was loosening up. “You can give me orders too. I won't bite you.” Clever girl – she had just made a “concession” that I could order her to do what she wanted to do, and make it appear my idea.

“Wonderful. Now shut up and let Amber kiss you.” I was discovering I liked being in control. Dance for me, my puppets!

Sidney closed her eyes and parted her lips. Amber was slightly taller than Sidney, so she bent over to give Sidney a chaste kiss on the lips.

“Cut!” I stood up. “Amber, I thought we practiced this yesterday, but you need a reminder. This is how you kiss.” I took Amber in my arms, placing one hand on her lower back, and the other around her shoulders, and slowly pulled her parting lips against mine. I let my tongue savor hers, then released her and sat down.

Amber laughed, and made a show of fanning herself, as if she were suddenly growing faint. Then she turned to Sidney.

“...And action!” I said.

Sidney stared at me with delicious terror in her eyes, as Amber embraced her. Amber wrapped her arms around Sidney the same way I did, but was even slower in bringing their lips together. The kiss was lighter than the one I had bestowed – their lips merely brushed together, but I was able to see Amber's tongue flicking out to taste Sidney's lips. Sidney's own tongue slowly extended to touch Amber's. I watched Sidney's knees buckle, and her own arms tentatively enveloped Amber for support. Sidney held Amber tighter and closer, until she had fully melted into the embrace of her friend, lost in a kiss she had never hoped to receive.

They continued their kiss for a full minute, until Amber finally withdrew. She appealed to me for approval, but Sidney only had eyes for Amber. They kept their arms wrapped around each other.

“Oh my,” was all I could say.

“I didn't know what to expect, but that was very nice,” Amber said. “You're a good kisser,” she said to her friend.

Sidney was crimson and quiet.

I intervened. “Well, Sidney's dated a few guys. She's had more practice.”

Sidney's eyes expressed a silent thank you for helping her maintain cover.

I gave my next command. “It's Sidney's turn now. Sidney, kiss Amber's neck and shoulders.”

Sidney didn't need to be told twice, and didn't need instruction on technique. She began underneath Amber's ear, and pursued Amber's neckline to the opposite shoulder. I saw her add little licks and love bites, and each of Amber's collarbones received a full bath from Sidney's tongue. Sidney's arousal was plain. She stood off-center, with her breasts nestled between Amber's. Her pelvis was dangerously close to grinding against Amber's thigh, which would be a dead giveaway. When Sidney finally retreated, her face was flush with desire.

I sought to distract attention from Sidney's obvious lust by remarking on Amber instead. “Amber, either you're really good at acting, or you're getting turned on by this.”

“I am, I know! Sidney is so good with her mouth and hands.”

Sidney gaped.

I hadn't expected that response from Amber, but it was good news. I was almost as relieved as Sidney that Amber was enjoying this. I thought Sidney would be less likely to give herself away if I kept things moving. “Amber your turn. Try touching Sidney's breasts.”




Might Have Been Ch. 04



“Um, okay.”

Amber raised her hands, placed them right in front of Sidney's magnificent mammaries, and paused. She glanced over at me. “This is kind of awkward with you watching.”

“It would be less awkward if I weren't?” I asked. I felt a twinge of guilt. Amber really was an innocent. Were Sidney and I taking advantage of that innocence, for our own purposes? I suppressed the thought. Amber had been a willing part of the planning. She was only in the dark with regard to Sidney's motivations. Tasha had left with me a nagging distaste for manipulation, however, and I considered that maybe I learned from her too well.

Amber giggled as she touched both of Sidney's breasts. Sidney flinched slightly, then leaned into Amber's hands. Amber noticed something interesting and described it with her peculiarly-direct form of naivete. “I think Sidney's getting turned on too. Her nipples are all hard. Mine always do that when I get... you know... excited? Is this turning you on too, Sidney?”

“A... little,” Sidney stuttered.

I stifled a laugh. Sidney's legs were trembling, her face and neck were flushed as red as her swimsuit, and her lips were moistened and quivering. Sidney was melting from inner heat.

“Give one of those hard nipples a very light pinch,” I suggested.

Amber took Sidney's nipple between her thumb and index finger, and squeezed it through the cloth of Sidney's swimsuit.

Sidney gasped, and her knees collapsed, dropping her into a sitting position on the bed of towels.

“Sidney, are you alright?” Amber was genuinely concerned.

Sidney nodded. Her body was shaking.

“I think Sidney liked that,” I said, suspecting she had just climaxed, or something very close to it.

Amber continued exploring with her hands, cupping Sidney's breast in her palm. She gently squeezed it, drawing a circle with a fingernail around one of Sidney's nipples. Amber was fascinated by the response of another woman's body, sampling texture, firmness, and sensitivity. Her face showed blithe wonderment at her discoveries.

Sidney's face showed contrasting emotional confusion. She would close her eyes, open her mouth and sigh, and then quickly panic that she might be enjoying this too much, glancing up at Amber with trepidation. Then a new pleasure would course through her breasts, and her lips would form soundless words as she fought against voicing her feelings. Her hand began to lower the shoulder straps of her swimsuit, then she caught herself. She looked to me, her eyes an unspoken plea.

I heard her prayer, and knew that it was good. “Amber, remove Sidney's swimsuit.”

Gratitude showed in Sidney's face, and she sat up, granting Amber the access she needed. Amber paused after pulling the suit below Sidney's breasts, brushing her fingers across Sidney's bare skin. Sidney gasped, and I saw her fists clench. She wanted to do something with her hands, but didn't dare.

“Sidney, you need to get into the spirit of things. Amber is a drop-dead gorgeous woman wearing a flimsy bikini. Touch her. Feel how soft, firm, and perfect her skin is. Admire just how beautiful and goddamned sexy she is.”

Sidney closed her eyes tight for ten seconds, summoning her courage. When her eyes reopened, she explored Amber's curves with trembling fingers, that slowly steadied as she gained confidence. Her fingers danced down Amber's arms, traipsed across her waist, and fluttered up her back. Sidney looked only at Amber's eyes, and her face echoed the lust I had seen last night. Her mouth was wide open, and her tongue wavered as if searching for something.

It found what it sought when Amber kissed Sidney full on the mouth. Sidney's hands spasmed in surprise, and then held on to Amber as if she were the entire world.

Sidney had tears in her eyes.

I smiled, happy for her. She deserved this.

Amber finally stopped kissing Sidney, and glanced at me, focusing on my tented swim trunks. “Is this doing it for you, Lance?” She asked.

“Oh, yes. But you're doing all the work. Why don't you finish removing Sidney's swimsuit, then let Sidney give you some attention.”

Sidney had recovered from her brief journey to heaven. When she discretely wiped away her tears, I saw flickers of fear had returned to her eyes. Had Amber realized how much Sidney was enjoying this? Did Amber suspect Sidney wasn't acting? Sidney was watching Amber closely, but Amber remained as naive as ever.

“This is your fantasy, Lance,” Sidney lied. “What did you have in mind?”

“Remove Amber's top.”

Amber was sitting on the towels. Sidney scooted behind her, and untied her bikini top. It was a testament to Amber's figure that when the top was pulled free, her breasts budged not at all.

“Sidney, kiss Amber's breasts.” I lowered my voice, emphasizing the import of my command.

With Amber sitting next to her, staring at her, Sidney grew self-conscious again. She glanced at Amber and smiled apologetically.

Amber giggled.

“Quit stalling,” I insisted.

Sidney chastely kissed Amber's breast. I saw the fear in her face, and knew she was concealing her interest again.

My arousal had been building, and I was ready to explode. I had been wanting an excuse to join the fun, and now saw it. “No, no, Sidney. Let me show you how it's done.”

Suspicion flashed across Sidney's eyes, but she forced a smile and withdrew. I had expected some resentment from her, but believed it would be temporary. Sidney was restraining herself. I was an expert on fantasies of attaining the unattainable, and was certain Sidney knew exactly what she wanted to do to Amber, but Sidney was shackled by her own caution. She felt she needed a word or command from me in order to avoid appearing too enthusiastic. I hoped my actions would liberate Sidney from her self-imposed constraints, and allow her to enjoy and pleasure her impossible lover to the full extent of her dreams.

Amber reclined onto the towels in anticipation, and I lay next to her. My fingers meandered up Amber's stomach before cupping her breast. I placed my mouth directly over the nipple, and stopped to look at Sidney, who was expressionless. The woman had a practiced control over her emotions, which I longed to overcome. “Watch and learn, kid,” I taunted and flicked Amber's nipple with my tongue.

Sidney rolled her eyes, but I saw her suppressing a laugh through gritted teeth. Once she had regained her composure, she placed her own mouth over Amber's other breast, and mimicked my actions.

Amber squirmed in pleasure from the attention of two mouths. She uttered a series of ohs, and her hands enfolded our heads to better leverage her breasts into our hungry mouths.

Sidney watched me intently. When I scraped Amber's nipple with my teeth, Sidney did the same. When I flicked my tongue from side to side, lightly battering Amber, Sidney was my mirror. She noticed me watching her, and I saw joy shining in her eyes. She chose that moment to stop imitating my moves and blaze her own trail, providing long licks to the underside of Amber's breast, each ending with a gentle kiss at the nipple.

My more active role gave Sidney new freedom and confidence, allowing her to explore and touch Amber as she wanted, regardless of concerns of discovery. She no longer had sole responsibility for Amber's responses. I gave her deniability – she could say she was just following my example, or my unvoiced suggestions. Sidney had realized that while my presence itself wasn't part of her fantasies, it had unlocked the door to her deepest desires.

Amber cooed and mewled in delight. I could feel her waist and legs fidgeting against me, as if Amber were losing control of her responses. Each twist and squirm spread her legs further apart, until she finally draped one long leg across my body, inviting me in.

As I moved my hands south, Amber thrust her hips into the air, moaning. I was surprised my touch evoked so intense a response, and interpreted it as a demand for a more intimate touch. I slid my hand down over the swell of her mound... and found Sidney's hand already there.

Amber's swimsuit bottom had been removed without me noticing, and Sidney's nimble fingers were fluttering over Amber's wet, naked flesh, driving the erotic escalation I had mistakenly credited to my own caresses.

Amber knew it was Sidney providing the intimacy she enjoyed. Her leg stretched over Sidney's waist, and she leaned closer to her with each new movement of Sidney's fingers. Amber turned incoherent. “What are you... Oh God... Oh, that feels...fu...” she stretched the final vowel into a loud moan of ecstasy, as she arched her hips off the floor into Sidney's skilled hands.

Sidney playfully thwacked my own hand aside. I shifted my gaze to hers. She was hovering over Amber's opposite nipple – challenging me, with laughter in her eyes. We both knew what was next, and by mutual understanding, both of our mouths abandoned Amber's breasts, tracing a path of kisses down her body, ending our slow race at opposite sides of Amber's perfect hips.

This was Sidney's moment, and I was willing to defer the honors to her, but I wasn't sure she wanted to leap first. It might be a dead giveaway to Amber. I didn't think Sidney was ready for that, but I wasn't the only one with a plan.

Sidney reached her arm around my head to pull my ear closer to her lips, and I heard a husky whisper. “Lance, order me to do this. Please. I'll make it worth your while.”

She was offering to trade sex for this? I pictured us arranging a time later in the day, and I wasn't thrilled at the prospect. Sidney could be as sexy as hell, but I had discovered last night that without Amber there to bury the needle on Sidney's libido, Sidney was a lousy lay. I had no interest in sleeping with a woman who didn't really want it and wouldn't enjoy it.

“What, you mean like later?” I asked, my skepticism plain.

Sidney laughed. “No, dumbass. Now. Order me to go down on her, and you can fuck me now. I want you to do it. It will provide cover, and I might even enjoy it.”

I understood. Fucking Sidney would continue the illusion that this was entirely my fantasy, not hers.

Amber grew impatient. “What are you two up to? Don't stop, this feels amazing!”

I nodded to Sidney, agreeing to her terms. “I was discussing something with Sidney. It's time for the big fantasy. I want to take Sidney from behind while she does something special. I had to talk her into it, but she agreed when she realized it was the only way she would get me inside her again.”

That wasn't quite the setup Sidney had in mind, but despite the dirty look she threw my way, I could tell she knew it would work.

Amber was confused, and seemed disappointed. “She's going to do something special to you? But I was so close.”

“No, Amber, she's going to do it to you. Lie down.”

Amber's eyes opened wide in nervous anticipation as she lay down on the bed of towels. Sidney grinned at me and positioned herself between Amber's legs. I saw fire in her eyes just before she bent over to nuzzle Amber.

Amber's confusion vanished in a surge of electric pleasure. “Sidney? Is that your tongue? Oh my, oh my God! Oh, that's...Oh!” As if by reflex, Amber's body curved into a gymnastics bridge, with her neck, shoulders, back, and hips all leaving the floor, pressing herself into Sidney's face.

Sidney prompted me with a toss of her head, and rose onto all fours.

In one swift motion, I removed my swim trunks and knelt behind Sidney as if her ass were a pagan altar. Her glistening flesh beckoned me, and Sidney rhythmically pushed back against me, shifting her angle so I was pressed against her opening. I thrust myself inside her.

Sidney's response was far better than it had been yesterday. The pleasure she was giving Amber had amplified her own desires to new heights.

Amber herself was in the throes of oral ecstasy, relaxing her bridge so her hands could paw and pinch her own breasts, gasping her satisfaction as she was penetrated by Sidney's tongue. “Oh, Sidney, I didn't know this could feel...” Her words climbed to a sustained wail. Her body was covered by a sheen of amorous sweat, and she tensed and spasmed as the current of pleasure coursed through her nervous system toward her brain.

Sidney was relentless, and I wished I had a better angle from which to appreciate her technique. She sent Amber into shock twice more, while still maintaining her rhythmic match of my own thrusts.

I moved my hands across Sidney's back, waist, hips, and ass, savoring their perfect texture as I moved inside her. She seemed to push into my hands when I touched her ass, which I took as a suggestion to squeeze her there. I kneaded the round flesh of her cheeks, eliciting moans from Sidney's mouth.

Amber finally opened her eyes, and gazed downward to see what was happening to her. She watched Sidney fondly as her friend serviced her, then shifted her gaze upward to watch me thrust into Sidney from behind. Amber's eyes locked onto mine, and the white brilliance of her smile heralded the approach of my own climax. Amber saw this in my eyes, and decided to encourage me. “Is this your fantasy? I can see why. I think it might be mine too.”

Inspired by the praise, Sidney did something to send Amber back into her gymnastics bridge. The sight of Amber's body once more arched in ecstasy while intertwined with Sidney's brought my own release as well, and I pumped it inside her.

Once the echoes of Amber's cries had died, Amber turned on her side, indicating the need for a break.

I withdrew from Sidney, who simply knelt on the floor, once more unsure of what to do or say.

Amber shivered on her bed of towels, but her legs and hips were still restless. Despite three orgasms, she appeared unsatisfied, and she was watching me like a cat watches a bird. Sidney rested her head on Amber's shoulder, draped her arm across Amber's chest, and absent-mindedly played with one of Amber's erect nipples.

Amber kept staring at me, but was talking to Sidney.

“My God, Sidney, that felt fantastic.”

I saw Sidney blush. “Yeah, when I saw how excited you were getting, I think I got carried away.”

“What was it like for you?”

Sidney's eyes widened, and I saw a panicked expression on her face as she answered. “Oh, um, like I said, it was Lance's fantasy. I just played along.”

“No, silly, what was it like having him inside you?”

Sidney's tension turned into annoyance and disappointment. Sidney didn't really think much about fucking me. I suspected she had been imagining the person behind her was Amber, armed with a sex toy. I was surprisingly okay with that.

Burying her annoyance, Sidney met my eyes, and I saw a smirk cross her face. She answered Amber's question. “The earth moved.”

Amber missed the irony. “Really? Lance, can you do that to me too?”

“Twist my arm,” I replied.

Sidney pushed herself away from Amber. She stood, and before she looked away, I saw tears welling in her eyes. I could tell Sidney was hurt by being pushed aside in my favor. I was sympathetic, but we both knew this was a likely outcome. I wondered how Sidney would handle it. Would she be grateful she had one chance in Amber's arms and cherish the memory, or would she be resentful she had “drunk from the Cup of Heaven”, as Dave had put it, only to have it snatched away?

Such thoughts proved premature when Amber's hand seized Sidney's. “Where do you think you're going?” Amber asked with a sly smile.

“Um, I figured I would clean up and get dressed while you two had your fun.” Sidney looked away so Amber couldn't see her tears.

“Get back here. It's your turn.”

Sidney boggled. “What?”

“First, just lie down next to me and hold my hand. They say it hurts the first time.”

“It depends on the girl. It helps if the guy starts slow and stops moving when it breaks.” Sidney glanced at me to make sure I was listening.

The prospect of deflowering Amber had brought me back to life. I crouched between Amber's legs, and placed myself at her entrance, which was still moist from Sidney's attentions. I feathered the skin of Amber's toned thighs and torso while waiting for her signal.

Amber clenched Sidney's hand in hers, locked her eyes with mine, and ordered, “Do it, Lance.”

I pushed in slowly, until I felt resistance, and then carefully pushed through. Amber flinched and cried, “Oh!” at the same time.

Sidney had been brushing her fingers through Amber's hair. She kissed Amber gently on the lips and made shushing sounds.

I remained still, until Amber stopped biting her lip and nodded for me to continue. I then slowly moved back and forth inside her, watching her reactions.

Amber's furrowed brow relaxed, and I saw her lips part, a sign the pain had dimmed. She pulled Sidney close. By the way Amber's lips were quivering, she appeared as if she wanted to whisper something in Sidney's ear, but once Sidney was close, Amber drew her in for a passionate kiss. With that same release of lust, Amber thrust her hips into mine.

Amber released Sidney and nodded. Sidney extended her leg across Amber's chest to present herself for pleasure.

Sidney's divine backside prevented me from seeing Amber's face, but I could imagine her actions once Sidney began moaning. Sidney had helped coach Amber yesterday by playing follow-the-leader, and the pattern still applied.

I quickened my thrusts into Amber, feeling as if her tight wetness was holding me after every recoil. Amber's hips gyrated in rhythm to my thrusts, and she wrapped her legs firmly around my waist, but her hands and mouth were all for Sidney.

Sidney leaned back in euphoria, until her head rested on my chest, where she glanced up at me. Tiny beads of sweat had collected around her parted lips, and her face was flushed with rapture. She had reached an ephemeral paradise – a culmination of years of unrequited love, lust, and adoration, sustained only by a hope she had known was futile. I didn't know what would happen after this act, but knew Sidney would be living this moment for the rest of her life. I recognized the expression and envied it.

I had placed my hands on Sidney's waist to hold her steady, but she now moved them to her chest. Remembering how she had responded when Amber touched her breasts, I sensed what she wanted. I embraced a breast in each hand, clasping her nipples between my fingers, and slowly squeezed her aroused flesh. Sidney's mouth opened in a wide “O”, and her eyes rolled back in her head. She bit her lip, and a low guttural groan escaped her throat. “Oh, I can't believe... Oh, I'm...” Her neck stretched backwards, and I felt her tremble in my arms. Sidney's quaking and moaning continued for several seconds, and I noticed she had bitten her lip, drawing blood.

Sidney was now spent. She released herself from Amber's sapphic embrace and prostrated herself on the floor, shivering. She seemed oblivious to everything except her hold on Amber's hand.

Amber's face was flush with the erotic sensations that flowed through her body. Her lips were parted, and her eyes were tempestuous.

“Kiss me, Lance,” she said.

I leaned forward and met her lips with mine, tasting Sidney's tartness with every flick of my tongue. Amber's breasts were pressed against me, and her taut nipples poked my flesh. Amber wrapped her legs tight, and tensed her hips in time to my thrusts, pushing me deep inside her. She turned my head, placing her mouth next to my ear, and she whispered softly as I kissed her neck.

“How has your fantasy been so far?”

I responded by nibbling the sensuous indent at her throat.

“How do you think Sidney feels?”

Fine, last I checked.

“You know, this was her fantasy too. She has been wanting to fuck me for three years, and I finally let her.”

Holy shit. She knew.

“But I didn't know if she was into guys as well. I had to see her with you this weekend to know. It's me. She wanted me even more than you did.”




Might Have Been Ch. 05



Twist and shape on the winding twineAround the spindle windsWish again, four times againFour wishes deep into the wellThere's a price to pay for a wish to come trueTrade a small piece of your life

-- Bob Mould, Wishing Well

September 1, 2002

"Buy a girl a drink?" Sarah repeated, holding out a paper bag with a bottle in it.

I took the bag, and shook it. The bottle was half empty. I sniffed and handed it back to her. "The lady will have a Jack Daniels."

Sarah took a swig, and returned it to me. "And the gentleman will have the same."

I sat down on the hood of her car next to her, and took a long pull. I detested hard liquor, but if ever a week was going to drive me to it, this was it. "I hate to break it to you, but the pool is closed on account of lightning."

Sarah guffawed. "Really. I walked up to the door, and from what I could hear, the pool was closed on account of sex."

I shrugged.

"I heard you were working with the Toothsome Twosome this weekend. Which one? Amber? I always thought you crushed on her."

I gave an apologetic palms-up gesture.

"Sidney?" She frowned at that. "I always suspected she was gay, but I could be wrong."

"Not telling."

"Sidney AND Amber?"

I laughed.

"You fucking dog." She was just fishing, but was annoyed I wouldn't tell her.

I changed the subject. "You would get arrested trying to swim wearing a bottle of Jack, so my guess is you came here for conversation."

"I need a friend." She didn't sound drunk. Either the bottle wasn't full when she got it, or she had drunk it very rapidly, and it hadn't hit yet.

"Dave stopped by earlier. I think he could use a friend too."

She flinched. "I broke his heart, and I feel like shit."

"So why did you break his heart?"

I saw her jaw tighten and then relax. "Long distance relationships don't work. I watched a dozen couples try, in last year's class. They all pretended they could make it work, with visits and holiday hookups, but everything fell apart. It's wrong for a good relationship to die by mutual self-deceit."

"You prefer a mercy killing?" I asked. Sarah just studied her shoes, so I continued. "We were over this yesterday. Dave offered to move to New York." I tried to keep that from sounding like an accusation, but I don't think it worked.

Sarah's eyes drooped in sadness. "No, he didn't."

What? "He told me he did, and you seemed to agree yesterday."

"That wasn't Dave."

Where was she going with this? "It sure looked like him -- black curly hair, skinny and pale."

"That was a pod person. My Dave has dreams of being a computer programmer, and isn't so pussy-whipped he will drop his dream and follow some shiksa to New York."

"You dumped him for his own good?"

Sarah's face collapsed from defiance into disappointed sorrow. "I thought you would understand, Lance. It's why I was so upset at you yesterday."

"Why would I understand?"

"Your dream is beautiful and real. You're brilliant and were accepted at one of the top physics programs in the country. You're going to rock the world someday -- hopefully not by blowing it up." She narrowed her eyes and gave me her stern-babysitter look, then relaxed it. "Your dreams are too important for you to give them up."

"Love is more important." I knew whereof I spoke.

"Like fuck it is." Sarah looked like she had just swallowed a bug.

"Come on, Sarah, without love --"

She put her hands over her ears. "Don't you quote song lyrics at me. I saw that scene in Moulin Rouge!"

"Doesn't make it less true."

"Lance, there are six billion people on this planet. If there is only one other person in the world who is your perfect match, what's the chance you will ever find her?" She didn't wait for me to answer. "It doesn't happen. There are millions of people who would make us happy. Love is a roulette wheel, where each time you choose whether this one is good enough, or whether to spin again." I detected the lack of sincerity in her voice. "If you both agree it's good enough, you call it true love, or destiny, and get married." Her voice was choking now, and she was fighting off tears. "So I just spin the wheel again, no matter how much it hurts, and eventually I'll get a good number again."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

"Lance the math geek. Lance the future physicist. Lance the logician with the big brain. Is there anything logically wrong with what I just said?"

"Logic and love are different universes, and logic isn't enough. If logic were our only method, we might all kill ourselves to minimize entropy. Logic can't tell you what makes life worth living."

"Which is living your dream. You need to learn to use that wonderful noggin of yours for something better than self-deception. Didn't you tell me last year that atomic particles are really little threads?"

Strings, not threads, I mentally corrected, or at least that was the prevailing theory.

Sarah took my silence for assent. "I thought about that a lot this summer. The Greeks thought The Fates wove the threads of your life, and it's true, but it's really just random. Fate is just another name for the result of your quarkum physics."

Quarkum? "Everything is quantum physics, Sarah, but that's no excuse for throwing love away when you find it."

She grabbed the front of my shirt, and I saw a glint of the fury that had hit me yesterday. "I'm not throwing it away! This is what I've been telling myself all day to avoid curling up and sobbing on the floor!" Her anger collapsed into despair. "I hoped you would understand."

I thought more about Tasha, about what I had done for her. "Then let Dave come with you, or move to Madison with him. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices for love."

She shook her head. "Not like that. Giving up my dream for Dave, or asking him to give up his -- that's as bad as murder. Dave needs someone who will share his dream, not steal it. So do I. You didn't know me before I started dancing. My parents had just divorced, and nothing made sense until I danced. It's who I am. I can't give it up, any more than I can give up breathing. I love Dave too much to steal his dreams, and he thought... you thought..." She trailed off.

"...that you didn't love him," I finished for her. Her eyes closed and her jaw tightened. "I was wrong," I added.

She flashed a wan smile. "That's the first time I ever heard you admit that. You've no idea how much that means. Thank you."

"Why is it important for you that I understand this?"

Sarah hesitated, but when the words came, her tone was pleading, and her eyes were wide and beseeching, staring into mine. "What if I'm wrong? What if I'm so high maintenance, demanding, and, and... bitchy...?"

"Sarah, you aren't high maintenance or demanding."

She punched me in the arm at my omission. "What if there really is only one person... or--" She peered down at her shoes. "And I was lucky enough to meet him young. What if I blew it? What if I made the wrong choice?" She also seemed to be contradicting herself.

"You think you'll be regretting this, is that it?"

She glanced at me sharply. "You aren't listening, and I don't like regrets."

I didn't believe that. "John Greenleaf Whittier had a quote I'm sure you've heard, 'For all sad words of tongue and pen / The saddest are these, It might have been.' You don't have any what-ifs?"

Sarah chewed her lip. "Don't you think those words are meant more about how you should approach the future, rather than the past? It's a waste of time pondering things I can't change. People who regret decisions in the past are really regretting the present. It makes more sense to cut the middleman, and just change the present."

What did she think I was trying to tell her? "So let Dave move to New York to be with you."

"You aren't listening!" She was slurring her words, and her face was composed in the vacant expression of the inebriated.

"This is where I'm right, and you made a mistake. If you find the right person, you fight like hell to make it work. You don't give up just because they move a thousand miles away, or are sick, or won't..." I couldn't complete the thought. "Love is too rare and precious."

Sarah suddenly stood on the hood of her car, holding her Jack Daniels in one hand, and her defiance in the other. "Love isn't enough!" she yelled, demanding to be heard by a naive universe.

I caught her as she fell down.

From the direction of the pool, a faint female voice could be heard responding, "Speak for yourself!"

Sarah was holding on to me for stability, and lifted her head off my shoulder to peer quizzically in the direction of the voice, which I recognized as Sidney's. After a few seconds, Sarah gave up and laid her head on my chest.

I had my own thoughts on the matter. "Love is everything, Sarah."

She studied her bottle of whiskey. "Fucking booze. It provokes the desire, but takes away the performance." She contemptuously threw the bottle onto the grass. It lay there, spilling its contents out to be drunk by the lush grass next to her car.

Did she just quote Macbeth at me? That line was about sex. "Sarah, what are you saying?"

She wouldn't meet my eyes. "I don't know. I wish... I wish..." She trailed off, teetering in a vertigo of whiskey and confusion.

"What do you wish, Sarah?" I had to adjust my grip on her to prevent her from toppling onto the gravel, pulling her closer.

Sarah turned into my movement, and astonished me with the softest and most delicate kiss I had ever received, as if my mouth were brushed by whiskey-scented rose petals. Sarah intimidated most men, yet here in my arms she was suddenly the most vulnerable, feminine woman in the world. Her tender tongue met mine and departed, leaving the flavor of Jack Daniels and regret as a farewell. She put her head on my chest, gazing down at my bare feet. "You have cute toes."

"Thank you?"

She regained her focus. "Wishes are impossible, or we would do them instead of wishing them. I don't like those threads of yours. I wish to unwind Fate."

After a few seconds to recover from the shock of being kissed, I shrugged her off. I had low tolerance for drunks, and she was turning into an annoying rambler. "Sarah, how drunk are you? Are you hitting on me when the corpse of your last relationship isn't even cold?"

Her eyes were unfocused. "Don't be stupid. Chicago isn't much closer than Madison."

"Then what?" I snapped.

Sarah sat up, and held her head as she got dizzy. "You and Dave are my best friends. I fucked it up with him. I don't think he'll ever forgive me, but I don't want to lose you as well. And I know you always wanted... wondered..." She glanced at me for confirmation.

Instead, she saw only the stern face I save for drunks and misbehaving children. I once wanted her, and wondered if we could have been together if she hadn't dated and destroyed my best friend, but it was too late for that now.

Becoming incoherent, she recited, "O body swayed to music, O brightening glance..."

"Sarah?" I recognized that line -- Cummings.

She blinked and regained some focus. "You're so clever -- you figure it out. You can't..." She closed her eyes again and nestled her head on my chest.

"Figure out what?" I didn't think I understood her. I leaned closer, but all I got was more nonsense.

"...know the dancer from the dance."

As she passed out, I realized my mistake. It was Yeats, not Cummings.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

I dropped Sarah off at her mom's house, and carried her into the house. Her mom was out, so I laid Sarah in her bed, left a note on the table indicating where their car could be found, and drove home to determine my next step.

The more I thought about my conversation with Sarah, the more frustrated I became. She had succeeded in making me feel sorry for her, even though she was breaking Dave's heart. Several subjective days ago, I had been sure Sarah was the ice queen, killing her relationship with Dave because she no longer needed him. She insisted she loved him, and I now believed her.

Sarah had been the best actress in our school, but couldn't have acted that well while drunk. I knew how she handled her booze. She was the worst kind of drunk -- an honest one. If she drank enough alcohol, her executive brain functions shut down and she committed the horrible social blunder of telling people what she thought of them. I had gotten off easy this time. The previous summer, after she drank a six pack of Schell's, she informed me I was the most arrogant son-of-a-bitch she had ever met, and that I didn't look nearly as sexy wearing an earring as I thought I did. (I wasn't arrogant enough to keep the earring.) While the alcohol may have induced Sarah to divulge more than she intended, she meant every word.

In vino veritas.

No, she wasn't lying, she was just wrong. I knew it. The only way I could stand looking at myself in the mirror each morning was by believing my sacrifices for Tasha were worth it. This wasn't just some rationalization of mine -- I had known Sarah was wrong nine years ago. A couple weeks after college had started, Sarah sent me a friendly e-mail asking how things were going. The timing couldn't have been worse.

Dave's mom had called me the previous week, asking me to visit Madison to check on her son. She was worried. Dave had been ditching his classes and drinking himself to oblivion most nights. While that would have been typical behavior for most first-year college students, it wasn't normal for Dave. I caught a bus and surprised him in his dorm.

I gave him the standard cure for heartbreak -- coffee, the disparagement of the opposite sex, and pep talk platitudes about the quantity of gilled vertebrates in the ocean. Because this was Dave, I ended up getting a lecture on how there weren't enough fish in the sea because of poor fisheries management by the major economic powers.

After two days of this, and the forced distraction of a Monty Python festival at the Union, he seemed coherent, and I left. Sarah's e-mail was in my box the day after I returned.

My response was a spleen-venter, recounting what I had been through the previous weekend. I described every emotional wound she had inflicted, in excruciating detail. I questioned whether Dave would ever really recover. I laid calumnies upon her soul, or lack thereof. Every ounce of outraged disillusionment I could muster was set in prose, and I ended with a request she not contact me again.

She never did.

I had even been in New York the entire summer of 2005, and never even looked up her number or address.

Recalling how I had felt then, the anger of the righteous blazed defiantly in my gut.

You're so clever -- you figure it out.

I was more clever than she knew -- that there was nothing to figure out. Sarah was never a might-have-been. There had never been a chance, and I didn't want one. I had now lived through her torture of Dave a second time, and didn't trust her. She was wrong.

Sitting up from my bed, I glanced back at my bookshelf. It had changed since the fall, with the addition of a crop of science books. I remembered that when I had decided on Chicago for college, I started early, reading books written by the more esteemed members of the faculty.

Chicago. If I wanted to put Sarah out of my mind, and continue chronologically, Chicago was the obvious choice, but there weren't many missed opportunities there. I had played the field, not having much luck finding a woman who was sufficiently interesting, only finding women to keep me busy. In my first year alone, I had dated a dozen women despite the workload Professor Pugachev dumped on me.

No be idiot, Lance. Professor Pugachev's favorite insult popped unbidden into my head. There was his textbook, sitting on my shelf: Quantum Concepts, Methods and Theories. The title just tripped off the tongue. I felt a surge of remembered anger, which fit perfectly into my current mood. I knew I was really still angry at Sarah, but Professor Pugachev would be a worthy substitute target, and I knew the where, when, and whom of my next destination.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Professor Pugachev was my first adviser in the Physics Department at the University of Chicago. He had an international reputation, which is one of the reasons I had bought his textbook. He was supposed to mentor me, help me select courses, and guide my academic career. The University had scooped him out of the old Soviet Union, and I had been thrilled when I found out he was my adviser. On paper, he was a dream.

Off paper, he was an asshole.

Late in my first year, I won a part-time job doing IT work on a Fermilab project, which was housed on campus. My programming background was exactly what they wanted to create their simulations, and I knew networks, allowing them to avoid dependence on the University's sluggish IT department. Pugachev had earmarked that position for one of his favorite students, and he never forgave me for "going behind his back". The great man was big on hierarchy and pecking order. I had broken one of his rules, and the fact that he had never told me the rule was irrelevant.

After that, he had tried to make my life hell on campus and around the lab -- giving me bad advice about courses, badmouthing me to other professors, and trying to make me seem like a screw-up at work. One of his favorite tactics was to ask for the wrong item (or database query, or file), and then publicly excoriate me when I gave him exactly what he had requested, insisting he had asked for something different. Despite his efforts, I managed to impress the other faculty to the point where he did no permanent damage to me -- in fact my working twice as hard to overcome Pugachev's sabotage is part of what impressed them. Pugachev evidently did this every year to one of the more promising students, and his peers considered the position of Pugachev's whipping boy to be an academic reference. I switched mentors after my second year, and was glad to see the back of him.

Years later, I still felt lingering resentment. I saw a nice way to kill two birds with one stone, taking revenge on my old adversary while making a play for one of my few missed opportunities in college -- Pugachev's wife, Irina.

Pugachev had an ageless appearance, with gray hair and a goatee that could have meant he was anywhere between forty and seventy, but he had married a trophy wife in Kiev just before emigrating to the US. Irina was much younger -- in her mid-thirties -- and was the subject of salacious gossip. I didn't trust rumors, particularly when it came to attractive women, but the scuttlebutt circling around her was consistent and pervasive -- that Pugachev couldn't keep her satisfied, and as a result she had slept with half the professors in the college, and most of the administrators.

Every single male graduate student claimed to have slept with her at some point, which is why I distrusted the rumors -- half those guys couldn't get laid by their own palms, never mind someone as attractive as Irina. Many of the claims about her were just braggadocio between physics geeks.

Still, I suspected they weren't all lies, because I had seen Pugachev rise to the bait on several occasions where Irina was concerned. Most notably, one of the other professors made a reference to seeing her at a Chicago Symphony performance of Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet. Pugachev had acted very suspicious, grilling his colleague about her companion -- what he looked like, when this was, and what she had been wearing. He tried to be nonchalant about it, but his jealousy was obvious.

Irina was well-liked among the students and staff. She was witty, flirtatious, beautiful, and far too good for Professor Pugachev. They had a beauty-and-the-beast relationship normally reserved for rock stars, actors, and billionaires.




Might Have Been Ch. 05



Pugachev treated her poorly. When he didn't have reason to be jealous of her, he ignored her, working long hours. He had no tolerance for the cultural outings his wife loved. I never saw him hug or kiss her, or even greet her, other than a bored-sounding, "Allo, Irinachka" when he called her on the phone. No one was quite sure why she hadn't dumped him within ten minutes of her plane landing in O'Hare. I, for one, cheered her presumed dalliances, and slept better at night knowing there was some justice in a world where an asshole like Pugachev was routinely cuckolded by his beautiful wife.

The first time I met Irina was by far the most notable, and would be my deja vu du jour. It was early November of 2003 -- my second year at the University. I was lying on my back on the floor in Professor Pugachev's office, determining why his computer had lost its network connection. As I traced the routing of his Ethernet cables, I heard a click click of heels approaching down the hallway, then the door opened, and I saw an expensive black pair of Italian pumps, serving as the foundation for an enticing pair of legs.

"Viktor, I left my car in lot. Here are keys." Despite the mundane words, her voice growled with a sexy, Slavic accent.

I heard Pugachev hand over his own keys. "Don't get detailing at same place as last time. Idiots scratched car."

"Yes, Viktor. When will you be home tonight?"

"Ten, eleven."

"You promised to fix modem."

"Tomorrow."

Irina was clearly annoyed. They switched languages for a few seconds, arguing at high speed, then Pugachev repeated, "Tomorrow", in English.

I wanted an excuse to see the notorious Irina. "What's the problem with the modem?" I asked from under the desk.

"Viktor, I thought this was gay prostitute under desk, which would explain why you no want to come home. But gay prostitute is asking me about modem, so I'm thinking maybe he moonlights as tech guy?" Irina's voice had a tone of seduction and a timbre of feigned surprise.

It was too funny for me to take offense, and I knew she was riding her husband, not me. I pushed out from under the desk, trying to hide my amusement from the professor. Irina was staring at me, and she saw the laughter in my eyes. She matched it with real laughter of her own, a few lilting notes of music.

Her eyes were large dark pools of sensuality and inscrutability, framed by high cheekbones and short, wavy black hair. She was wearing a Little Black Dress that was too short for November in Chicago, extending down only to mid-thigh. The dress's only deference to the coming winter was its long sleeves.

Based on the stories, I had pictured someone skanky -- a busty tramp with too much lipstick and a leopard-print bolero, but Irina was liquid elegance contained in a slight frame. The only jarring note was a hint of mockery around the eyes, which seemed aimed at her husband, not me, so I accepted her hand when she offered it.

"Irina Pugacheva."

Each "i" was pronounced like an "ee", and the "e" in her last name was pronounced like an "o". Spelling rules made no sense in any language, evidently.

Professor Pugachev interrupted my introduction. "No be idiot, Lance. Fix computer."

Fixing the professor's computer had been easy, as he had sabotaged it in the hopes I couldn't fix it. Once I realized sabotage was the problem, it was simple to run through a list of things a user can deliberately botch without leaving an electronic trail. In this case, he had switched around two Ethernet cables.

"It's fixed, Professor. Someone played a joke on you by swapping your cables around. Fortunately, the fool had no idea what he was doing."

His eyes narrowed with suspicion, before he gave up and muttered, "Bah."

Irina never took her eyes off me. "You are Lance?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I am no ma'am. Call me Irina. You are Viktor's newest protege, no?"

The term surprised me. "Professor, I'm your protege?"

"Bah." That answered that question.

Irina pressed on. "You know about modems?"

They are pretty simple devices, but I wasn't going to tell that to a beautiful woman who might be impressed. "Yes, what's the problem?"

The professor interrupted again, clearly annoyed with me. "You must go, Lance. You have work to do."

"Actually, I'm off work now, professor."

"Then you must go because I do not want you here."

I shrugged my shoulders, bowed slightly to Irina, and said, "Looks like I'm not allowed to help. Good luck." I heard them argue in Ukrainian as I left the room, followed by the hurried staccato click of her heels as she pursued me down the hallway.

If she wanted to talk to me, we would both enjoy it more if there were some distance from her Cossack of a husband, so I kept walking. She approached me as I pressed the "down" button. "Viktor has talked of you."

"I'm sure the word 'idiot' came up."

Her smile showed a slightly crooked set of teeth. "Yes, but if you know him like I do, it is compliment."

My eyebrows expressed my skepticism.

She laughed. I had heard she was a classical music fan, which was appropriate. If Prokofiev had heard her laughter, he could have dashed off several themes for new symphonies. "You should accept it as one. Viktor only hates men who scare him."

"Scare?"

She frowned, thinking she may have used the wrong word. "Scare, like muscles." She flexed a firm bicep.

"I thought you meant like a monster. Rawr." I curled my fingers like claws, and bared my teeth.

"Rawr?" She laughed again, but this one was more appropriate to Stravinsky. "You no monster. Is there better word than scare?"

"Threaten, intimidate..."

"Yes. Intimidate. You intimidate him."

I flexed my own bicep.

She made an "ooh" sound, briefly grabbed my arm, and laughed another ballet score.

The elevator arrived and we both entered. I pressed the lobby button, and she never glanced at the console -- she just stood distractingly close to me. Professor Pugachev had no sense of personal space either, and I often had to keep a chair between us to avoid smelling his onion breath. Standing close to Irina was far more pleasant -- her scent was not of onions, but of Obsession perfume and temptation.

Irina spoke again. "I get Comcast broadband, and want to talk family in Ukraine, using net phone. Comcast won't come until Monday. I need to call for Mama's birthday," She explained. "You fix computer? I will pay."

"I can probably get it working. Its most likely not plugged in right, or needs to be reset. But I can't promise. If it's a bad modem you will need a new one."

"$100? Viktor won't be home and I need company."

I blinked.

Mischief frolicked behind her lips. "My family. I want to talk to my family." I nodded, but was certain she had intended that particular misunderstanding.

Irina continued her sales pitch as the elevator opened to the first floor. "I drive you to my house. You fix modem. I pay you $100 even if you can't fix. I send you cab back here."

She put her hands together in a pleading gesture, and her eyes joined their supplication. "Please, be my hero," she begged.

It was tempting. Even if I were reading too much into her flirting, or if that were just part of her sales pitch, I could use the $100. But I hadn't yet given up on Professor Pugachev. At that time, I was still hoping hard work and ability would change his opinion.

"Your husband hates me. I don't think he would want me in your house."

She gave a sly smile. "Isn't that part of the fun?"

Oh my.

But I bitched out, deciding she was just playing flirt-with-the-geek-to-get-something-done. I couldn't afford to have my school adviser hate me even worse. "I'm sorry. I have some work I need to get done tonight."

She put her little finger into her mouth, and dug a toe into the carpet, pouting like a pro.

"Good luck on the modem, though." I walked quickly out the front door and headed to the dorm.

Irina never talked to me after that, the few times I saw her. Her husband continued to treat me like shit until I had finally gained enough allies amongst his colleagues to secure my progress through academia. A fat lot of good it did me. My academic career had collapsed, and my hatred of Pugachev had only grown, to the point that I now deeply regretted passing on the chance to do to his wife what he had metaphorically tried to do to me.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Ransacking my old bedroom closet, I stripped the wires from another twelve volt power supply, and retrieved the resonance array from my gym bag.

The array's limitations were more clear to me now. In a futile act of nobility, I had tried to go back to warn against the 9/11 attacks, but it didn't work. Consistent with my failed attempt to convince my dad to hold onto his Apple stock, the array only allowed me to revisit decisions that were actually plausible, based on the information I had in that universe at the time. I had also tried to travel to an alternate universe where I was making sweet love to Natalie Portman, but the multiverse wouldn't cooperate with that fantasy. Unfortunately, in the entire infinite number of universes, there wasn't a single one where I got to nail Princess Amidala. My ability to act seemed limited -- I could only use the array to explore decisions I had made in my own personal timeline.

I readied the array, pictured Irina pouting in front of me, and flipped the switch.

Everything dissolved...

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

November 6, 2003

...and recomposed.

Irina was standing opposite me in the hallway, digging her toe into the floor, and baiting me to reconsider, which I did.

"Oh what the hell, if your husband is going to hate me, I might as well give him a good reason."

Irina's eyes widened at that, and she brought her hand to her throat. I must have surprised her. "Wonderful, Lance. Thank you very much! You are standing front of room seven, and that is my lucky number, and this my lucky day. You are finished with work now?" She leaned against the office door behind her, dislodging the nail holding the top of the room number. The number tipped to one side.

"Yes, fixing your husband's computer was the last thing I needed to do today."

Irina's eyes darkened when I said "your husband", but it vanished so fast I may have imagined it. "Excellent. I will drive you."

I opened the door for her as we left the building. She smiled at that. The upside of chivalrous door openings was that men were able to watch a woman's ass while still getting points for courtesy, and Irina knew how to walk in heels. The clicking of her footsteps, the tease of her dress, and the scent of her perfume captured my senses as I followed her to a silver BMW.

"You swapped cars with your husband?"

Her eyes darkened again. She didn't like being reminded Professor Pugachev was her husband.

"Da. Yes. He wanted me to get car detailed, but I think I will forget that. He calls me 'idiot' too, so I use as excuse sometimes." Irina started the car, and navigated our way through the parking lot.

It was unsettling that Professor Pugachev insulted her, and even more disturbing that she told me. "Fortunately, idiot is a compliment coming from him, you said."

"No. I said you should take it as one. You are in good company." She patted my thigh and smiled. We were driving toward the North Shore.

"He shouldn't insult you," I said.

She patted me on the leg again, and I felt a twitch in my groin. "He shouldn't insult you either, but he is Viktor, no?"

I changed the subject. "Did you speak English before leaving The Ukraine?"

"Only little bit. And it's just Ukraine."

I hadn't known that. "Were you from Kiev, like your... like the professor?"

"Da."

"What did you do there?"

"I teached Astronomy at Kiev State University."

"You taught Astronomy? Really?"

"Taught, yes," She corrected herself. "Don't be surprised."

"No, I just hadn't heard you were an academic."

"You heard I was Viktor's pretty little wife, no? I am academician no more."

"Why not?"

"Viktor. I was new professor at Kiev. Viktor was famous physicist. I had... crunch on him." She glanced at me, seeking confirmation she had said the right word.

"Crush."

"I had crush on him. I asked him dinner. We date. We marry. Soviet Union died and Viktor wants to leave. He said there were many colleges in Chicago, and we will find me astronomy job, easy as cake. We come Chicago, but no jobs in America for me. Just for Viktor. My degree not recognized."

"Ouch."

"Da. Ouch." Her eyes were particularly dark at that moment.

We rode in silence as we approached Evanston.

She seemed lost in thought, and then spoke. "Sometimes I want to go back, but no job now in Kiev either, and America is much richer country." She gestured to the car. "Hard to give this up." We pulled into a nice residential area, and then into the driveway of what had to be a million dollar home.

My tuition paid for this? "Have you made friends here?" I asked instead.

She laughed. "Oh, I have made many friends." She parked the car, smoothed down the hem of her skirt, and grinned at me. "I hope you will be one of them."

I swallowed.

She exited the car, and I followed her into the house. I stashed my backpack in the front closet.

Irina slinked toward the kitchen. "Would you like drink? Gin? Vodka?"

"A Coke would be fine if you have one." It was a very nice house. I didn't know much about interior design, but I noticed hardwood floors, and seemingly expensive paintings and sculpture.

"Vodka and Coke coming up. Computer is in den." She gestured to a room on the right, and disappeared into the kitchen before I could object to her turning my drink alcoholic.

I went into the den, disconnected her modem from its power cord for ten seconds, and booted the computer. Irina entered with two drinks, handed me mine, and sat in a chair opposite me, tasting her own martini. She said nothing, and watched me, running her finger in a slow circle around the rim of her glass.

My drink tasted as if the Coke had run out the back alley in terror as soon as it heard vodka was coming to the party.

Irina took a slow drink of her martini. She smiled, and swirled an olive around the glass. "Do you have girlfriend, Lance?"

I had to think about that. Was I dating anyone in fall of 2003? I had a fling with a girl named Holly who lived down the hall in my dorm, but that had ended before Halloween, as I recalled drunken kisses with a redhead dressed like a medieval princess, who turned out to merely have a Disney fetish. "No, not at the present."

She continued to pepper me with questions while I ran her computer through its paces. "Do you like working for Viktor?"

"I'm not sure I should say anything bad about him in his house."

"Oh, please do."

I barked a laugh. "I don't like working for him. I'm in the company of some of the greatest physicists in the world, and the Professor tries to make me fail. He isn't giving me difficult tasks, but he sabotages my work, and isn't truthful about what he requested. I have started recording his requests, or confirming them by email, so he can't deny he made them."

"You intimidate him, as I said."

"I'm not sure how."

"Young. Handsome. Virile."

Virile? "Not to mention modest. I'm the most modest person you ever met."

She raised her glass in salute. "Witty. Clever. Smarter than him."

That surprised me. "Professor Pugachev's work--"

"-- was stolen from his graduate students. You have seen pattern. He tries make you look bad, so when he steal your ideas, no one believe you. You must really impress if he start on you already."

The fucker. "You don't seem to have much respect for him," I observed guardedly.

"None."

"Can I ask why you..." I stopped. The question seemed rude.

"Stay with him?"

I nodded, embarrassed.

"I would lose immigrant status and go back to Kiev. I like America, and Viktor lets me send money back to family."

She was staying with him for the money. That seemed a little... whorish?

Annoyance flashed across her face as she sensed my disapproval. "Do not look at me like that. I have not fucked Viktor for seven years."

She had so far been the epitome of class. The sudden vulgarity was shocking.

"I shock you," she said.

"No, not at all!"

"I am Ukrainian. Viktor's family are Russians from St. Petersburg. They Catholic. Rare in Russia, but Viktor is Catholic too, and will not divorce me. He likes me on his arm at University cocktail parties."

"You sound like you hate him."

"Oh, yes, Lance." She took another drink. "Very much." Her martini was almost gone.

"You must be lonely."

"Not at all. I tell you I have many friends." Over my shoulder, she saw Internet Explorer open successfully to a home page peppered with Cyrillic characters. "You fix computer!"

I had only power-cycled the modem. "Yes, I think I did."

Irina was effusive. "Oh thank you. I can now talk to mama."

I swallowed my disappointment, momentarily convinced this was just one more time I was flirted into fixing a computer. "I'll get out of your hair."

"No, silly. It middle of night in Kiev. I call early in morning." She stood, finished her drink, and opened her purse. She removed some twenties and walked over to me. "I must thank you." She stepped in close, hugged me, and stood on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. She then pressed the money into my hand, and backed away.

I put it in my pocket. It seemed we were done, and I pondered where my next jump would be.

Irina had more on her mind. "Can you stay a moment? I want your opinion of something."

"Certainly, Irina."

She smiled. "Finish drink. I make you another. I be right back."

I stepped into the hallway, found the bathroom, and dumped most of my drink. Returning to the den, I perused the books on the walls -- physics journals and texts, Russian language novels, a few English translations of same like Turgenev's Fathers and Sons, Russian translations of Stephen King books recognizable by the covers, English language biographies of Prokofiev and Kandinsky, and an English translation of the poetry of someone named Anna Akhmatova.

I pulled down the Kandinsky book. I didn't recall ever seeing his work, but remembered Sarah's diatribes against him as one of the big villains of Twentieth Century art. The book had some photos. Most of it belonged on kitchen refrigerators, or as patterns on the neckties of aging hippies.

"You like Kandinsky?" Irina asked.

I turned. Irina had posed herself in the doorway. She had switched into a crimson cocktail dress that fit her like a sheath. Irina had a slim figure, but the dress accented every curve she had.

"I don't think I get abstract expressionism."

"Nothing to get. It comments on..." -- she struggled for the English word -- "...subjectivity of viewer by painting art with little meaning, except what viewer brings. It is artistic cowardice. Kandinsky is shit."

"It's your book," I guessed.

"Kandinsky was Ukrainian," she replied, as if that explained everything.

"How about Akhmatova?" I hadn't heard of her, but the book was well-worn.

Irina smiled. "Yes, Akhmatova was Ukrainian too. She studied at Kiev, and was brilliant." She extracted the book, and thumbed through it, seeking a marked page. She then stood close to me. "I read for you:



Might Have Been Ch. 05



I couldn't make grammatical sense of the last line of the poem, but I caught hints of meaning. The past echoing into the present even though you try to forget, but there was something else -- it felt like personal criticism. "What was she trying to forget?" I asked, and a thought occurred to me. "When did she live?"

Irina appraised me. "Very good. Yes, she wanted to forget Stalin and the War. Two husbands and many friends killed by purges. Ukraine famine. She was in Leningrad during German siege."

"Ouch." Millions of civilians surrounded by the German army for three years, often with nothing to eat, except the rats, the cold, and each other.

"Da. Ouch."

"Why does that poem have special meaning for you?"

Irina took a long drink from her new martini. "Anna wanted to escape past, but she is the helpless echo, made to repeat what she saw through her poems. The past is passed. You cannot change it, but maybe you learn." Irina sighed. Her eyes were moist, like she was on the verge of tears. "Anna gives me perspective. I sold myself to Viktor, but nice house in Chicago suburbs is not the gulag."

She returned the book to the shelf, caressing the spine as she did so. Irina then held herself, arms crossed in front of her chest. She was a picture of contradiction at that moment -- beautifully sad, sexual and lonely -- a mature woman, and at the same time a little girl in need of protection.

My heart dipped and my head swam. If I had met her when she was twenty and unmarried, I would have fallen in love within minutes. We would have had a torrid love affair, married young, and raised genius children who all had fucked-up relationships. I had an overwhelming urge to save her -- to protect her, but knew it was impossible. I couldn't even save Tasha.

Irina broke the somber tone in the room. "But if we dwell in past, we miss the present." She slammed her drink, making me wonder how well she followed her own advice. "I want your opinion on dress," she said. "I wear it Saturday for University dinner party." She spun a quick pirouette.

"I'm not an expert on fashion," I cautioned.

"I am expert on fashion. I want your opinion as man. How you think I look in dress?"

That was a question I could answer. The dress was on the naughty side, at least for a University social function. It had halter straps that drew my eye to her cleavage. Her chest was not large, but a push-up bra emphasized what was there. The dress itself was very tight across her torso and hips, then pleated slightly at the skirt. The hem looked as if it had only agreed to cover the bottom of her ass reluctantly, after losing a heated argument. Crimson shoes added an extra inch over the pumps she had worn earlier.

I assessed what must be happening. While the conversation about Ukraine was real, much of this evening felt like a rehearsed script. I was certain now that some of the rumors were true about Irina bedding students. This was a seduction, with the dress pushing me to make appreciative comments about her appearance. The rest of the script played out in my head. She would act shy, and say something complimentary in response. I would stammer, and she would insist it was true, and that girls must be dying to sleep with me, etc.

It was all nice and pleasant, but I didn't feel like playing the role of the inexperienced young college student. Call it pride or ego, but if this was going to be a seduction, I wanted a role-reversal, and I wanted her memories of me to be distinct from any other student she had bedded to spite her husband.

"As a man, I have definite opinions about the dress. If I were at a University dinner party, and saw you, the younger wife of an older professor, wearing that dress, I would stare at your beauty." I circled her, emulating a lion assessing potential prey.

Irina's eyes widened in surprise, but she said nothing, and merely nodded at the compliment as she tracked me.

"I would notice the neckline." I gestured to her breasts. "I would conclude this was a woman who liked to be appreciated for her beauty."

Irina's teeth showed through slightly-parted lips.

"I would observe how tight the dress was, and think the woman didn't merely want to be seen as beautiful. She wanted to be seen as sexual. And I would think she had succeeded."

Irina's musical laugh had a girlish lilt. This wasn't how her targets normally behaved, and she liked it.

"I would look at the short skirt, and suspect she didn't just want men to notice her. She wanted them to do something about it, to approach her and hint at a meeting in a secluded place, where no one would know. She wanted them to call when her husband was away."

Irina had stopped smiling, and she turned her head slightly, indicating disapproval and caution. Was she being mocked? Was I calling her a whore? She waited.

This was the part that was either going to get me slapped or fucked. "And then I would look at the shoes -- the crimson fuck-me pumps, and I would believe that if the man were handsome, clever, and charming..."

Irina was now squinting at me like I was full of shit, and she was considering a slap.

"...and if her husband would really, really, hate it if he knew..."

Her smile returned, and there was a glint in her eye.

"... for that man, she would invite him into her house, when her husband was away. For him, she would say 'yes'".

I didn't get slapped. "Yes," Irina said, and released the breath she had been holding. She stepped forward into my arms -- her hand reaching behind my back to pull my hips into hers -- arching her neck backward to receive my kiss.

Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a warm martini glass, but I knew the taste would fade fast. Her tongue flicked out to lick the tip of mine, and her smile broadened. A throaty chuckle escaped her lips. "My bedroom is upstairs."

"Lead the way."

Irina pulled me backwards, unbuttoning my shirt as we left the den. My belt was already unbuckled before I tripped over the first stair, and her hand was wrapped around my cock by the time we entered the bedroom and approached the bed. She didn't bother turning on the light -- she just spun me around and pushed me onto the mattress. Irina climbed on top, shoved down my jeans and underwear just far enough to liberate me, and sat astride me.

I didn't have to lift her skirt very far to have the access demanded by my urgency, but I encountered a surprise. "I was right about the dress and what it meant. You aren't wearing panties."

Her eyes had that glint again, and her smile was fierce.

"Is that how you intend to wear this dress at the dinner?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "I never wear panties. They interfere with fucking. Put your dick inside me, now."

I was disappointed by the lack of foreplay, but her aggressive sexuality was more than enough to have me ready. I pushed my weight upward, and her wetness engulfed me.

Irina crouched on her knees, with legs spread wide, using her thigh muscles to raise and lower herself on top of me. Her body was upright, declaring her mastery of her marital bed.

Her back curved like a strung longbow, and she steadied herself by placing her hands on my thighs, but she otherwise seemed entirely focused on the sensations within her. She didn't moan -- she just kept her eyes shut, as her hips rocked me.

Irina's movements unleashed torrents of pleasure. She knew how to use her hips, finding a pattern that had me screaming for release. She would coil upward, and her inner walls would clench tight around my shaft, turning every thrust into a tease -- then she would relax, and piston her hips downward, with her thighs spreading wide to draw me deep. Her rhythm was a pulsing steady beat. I imagined the horns of Prokofiev's Dance of the Knights marking her tempo.

While I was maddened by her flawless technique, I was also frustrated. I was having sex with an older woman and wanted to match her likely stamina. I wanted to prolong the act, and bring her with me.

Irina had no interest. She urgently wanted to make me come, and her coital skills were too practiced for me to resist. I felt the climax building within me, and tried to pull backward to relieve some of the friction. She would have none of it -- she slammed her hips down firmly, enveloping me, and switched rhythms to small rapid circles while her Kegel muscles ran up and down my shaft, simulating the effect of a heavenly inner tongue.

Resistance was impossible. I thrust into her, in a desperate attempt to make her come with me, but only succeeded in ensuring my own orgasm. My hands clasped the globes of her ass, and with a loud grunt, I spent myself inside her.

Irina held me firmly between her thighs until I had stopped, then she withdrew. She opened her eyes for the first time since we had lain on the bed, and gave a wistful smile -- a half apology. She sat on the bed, studying me.

I didn't want to seem ungrateful, so I carefully phrased my words. "I take it as a point of pride to make sure women enjoy me as much as I enjoy them, and I feel I left you unsatisfied."

"No, you gave me what I want."

"You didn't come."

"I don't orgasm from my...friends."

"Never?"

"Never. I don't do this for me to orgasm. I do it to have sex with Viktor's students or colleagues, preferably in Viktor's house, in Viktor's bed."

An ice cube slalomed down my back. I knew revenge was part of her motivation, but I also thought she was a frustrated woman in her sexual prime, trying to satisfy needs Professor Pugachev couldn't meet. That didn't seem to be the case at all. Irina's passions were fueled entirely by hate.

She noticed the expression on my face, and met my gaze with a glare. "You disapprove. Your dick would disagree, I think."

"You hate your husband that much."

Her eyes narrowed. "You don't know hate."

"That isn't what I meant. What about you? You hate him so much that hurting him means more than experiencing any joy yourself."

"Hurting him is my joy."

"Why?"

Her eyes flashed as she unleashed a firestorm of words."Viktor killed me. I was promising young astrophysik. I had family. I had hopes. Dreams. He brings me here with promise I find job like him. I trusted him and he lied. Viktor want pretty wife on arm. I get clothes and car, but I am no longer me. I am Chicago housewife with no talent except sex. So I fuck Viktor's students, friends, and colleagues. If that all my talents good for here, I use against him!" She stopped to catch her breath.

I was careful in my words. "Don't you think that's kind of nihilistic?"

"Ha! We Slavs invented nihilism."

I prepared to respond, with what would be a hymn to hope, an opera for opportunity, and a paean to perseverance. I assembled sentences that would inspire her to discard self-destruction. I would create a speech for the ages and turn her life's mission into one of joy instead of hate.

Instead I heard the front door open downstairs, and I whispered, "Eep."

"Irinachka?" Professor Pugachev's voice traveled up the stairs, searching for his errant wife.

I glanced at my watch. Eight o'clock. He was home early.

As I turned to Irina, she was already up. She grabbed my arm and dragged me to a closet. Before I could protest, she shoved me inside and followed, shutting the closet door behind her. Thankfully, we were still wearing our clothes. They were disheveled, but not scattered on the bedroom floor.

"Irinachka?" the Professor asked again. He was closer -- the stairway, I thought.

Irina pressed her index finger against my lip, and dragged me down to the floor.

I pushed myself against the rear wall of the closet, and she sat next to me. In the dim light coming through the slats in the closet door, I could see the closet was spacious. Two levels of clothes on opposite sides, with ample room in the center. The floor was carpeted. I noticed all the clothes were Irina's. The professor evidently had his own closet.

"Irinachka, gde tui?" The professor's voice was loud, right outside the bedroom. I heard the bedroom door open, and the light turned on.

Irina's hand gripped my thigh -- her nails digging into my flesh. This did nothing to relieve my own tension. What would the professor do if he found us here? Get me fired? Expelled? Did he own a gun? My resonance array was stashed in my backpack in the front closet, and I didn't have a power supply prepped anyway. I couldn't jump.

I heard the professor shuffling around in the bedroom. Keys rattled, shoes scuffled. Through the slats in the closet door, I could glimpse pasty white legs changing from professorial polyester to flannel pajamas. I flinched when I noticed he was wearing white Spider-Man briefs.

Irina's other hand clutched my chest, scratching me. She buried her face in my shoulder, so fearful she bit into muscle to stop from screaming, then she kissed my neck, and her hand crawled up my thigh, seeking its target between my legs.

I turned to her, and opened my mouth to whisper, but her finger pressed against my lips again. Her eyes were wide open, emanating heat, and her lips were parted. She was breathing hard, and her countenance exuded sexual hunger. I hadn't seen lust in her expression on the bed, but by God I saw it now.

The professor sat down on the mattress. I heard the bounce of bed springs and a muttered Slavic curse.

The tip of Irina's tongue entered my ear, and her fingers encircled my traitorously-rejuvenated cock. She rotated her body to face me, and rubbed herself against my thigh, moaning so close to my ear it sounded like a howl, even though it was but a faint whisper.

The professor puttered around the bed, reading something. There was no telling how long he might stay, or whether he might hear us.

Irina's hot kisses moved from my ear down my jaw line. She took my lower lip between her teeth and half-pulled, half-scraped as she moved her face ever downward. Her mouth released my lip, and she bit my chin, nuzzled my chest, and licked my nipples. Her hips were now fully dry-humping my leg. The entire ensemble of sexual stimulation was performed in impressive and welcome silence.

How long could I take this? I was a talker. If she kept this up, I was going to lose control and give us away. Didn't she understand that? I tried to push her away, but her arms and hips held me tight. Even as small as she was, I couldn't push her away without making noise. Oh God! I gritted my teeth.

Irina licked a trail down my stomach and pelvis, seeking her goal.

I braced myself, and bit my own lip in anticipation. I paradoxically almost cried out in triumph from making no sound, when I felt her lips embrace the tip of my cock.

She circled the glans with her tongue, giving hungry, wet licks, like her favorite flavor of ice cream cone was melting in the heat of an August sun.

It was fire. It was exhilaration and sexual torture. I made a fist and bit my hand, not able to help myself as my hips arched upward to meet her voracious, wet tongue.

Feeling me respond, Irina closed her mouth around me -- lips sealed tight as she sucked me in.

I knew what would happen. She would break the seal by accident, and with a loud "pop" or "slurp", her husband would hear. He would throw open the closet door and find his wife's mouth around my cock. I was dead.

Blessedly, Irina was too practiced for that. She inched me deeper down her throat, without ever breaking the Ziploc seal kept tight by her lips. She took me still deeper, and I realized she was going to deep-throat me.

No! I screamed to myself. You will gag, I'll groan or shout. We will be discovered! But I was paralyzed by pleasure and terror, able to do nothing but hold perfectly still to reduce the risk of popping the vacuum, or prodding her gag reflex. 

I had only been deep-throated once before, by someone trying it for the first time. She had failed and neither of us enjoyed it. This was far better -- and worse -- sending my cock to heaven and my mind to hell. Her lips finally reached my base, her tongue whirling like it was dancing to a big band song. Oh God, I could even hear Benny Goodman's Sing, Sing, Sing in my mind.

Sex with Irina was like having an orchestra in my head.

If I hadn't climaxed just minutes before, I would have already exploded. Instead, my volcano remained capped while my brain absorbed the seismic pressures Irina created with her skilled mouth. How long could she do this? How long could I take it? My fingernails plowed furrows in my palms. I felt blood running down my lip from where I had bitten it, yet still her tongue swirled and the hungry vacuum of her throat massaged my cock and sucked me toward oblivion.

I opened my mouth. I was going to shout, or I would flinch and throw her backward into the door of the closet.

Irina saved me. She relaxed the vacuum pressure of her mouth, released her lips, and withdrew from me like an expert sword swallower, with a flourish and a smile.

I stared at her in horror. What the fuck are you trying to do? I wanted to scream.

She pressed her finger against my lips yet again, and she lifted her leg and straddled me. The arousal in her face was elevated to levels I would have thought beyond the reach of gods and men. She had just deep-throated her husband's least favorite student within fifteen feet of him. With her hate-fueled sexual neurosis, this knowledge was sexual adrenaline.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

With tortuous deliberation and inevitability, she impaled herself upon my cock. This was a far cry from the expert-but-expedited fucking I had received before her husband arrived. She was slow -- oh so slow. She caressed my cock like a professional masseuse who billed by the hour, not missing an inch from base to tip.

My tormentor lowered herself into a deep crouch. Her feet were still firmly planted on the floor, and her legs provided leverage. I noticed she was still wearing her crimson fuck-me pumps, and I suddenly found myself not caring if her husband discovered us. I wanted this. I wanted this beautiful crimson-footed Slavic goddess with her magical pussy -- damaged vindictive soul and all.

Irina's hands reached down to grab the hem of her skirt, and inch-by-languid-inch she raised it. First, she exposed the pelvis in which I was gripped like a vise, then exposed her slim round hips, and finally her firm stomach -- revealing her naked beauty in the dim fragmented light of her closet.

I helped her lift her dress over her breasts and head, and in silence, she laid it down on the floor. My hands cupped her breasts -- inconveniently still clad in a crimson demi-bra. I ran my hands over her cleavage, which caused her to lean into me, and I reached behind to undo the clasp. Just as with the dress -- Irina carefully laid the undergarment on the floor, making no noise.

Irina's breasts were a fractal iteration of her form -- small, sharp, and beautiful, with their size protecting them from the ravages of gravity. Her nipples protruded long and proud. Understanding a hint of the game Irina was playing, I pinched them, tempting her to shriek in pain and pleasure.

She opened her mouth, and I thought she would cry out. Instead, she raised a hand to her mouth and bit down on the flesh of her own palm. I felt her tighten around me at the same time. I knew how to read a woman's body when it was in the throes of pleasure, and I could tell that despite her earlier protestations that she never came from her liaisons with her "friends", she was on the cusp of climax.

My sense of trepidation returned as I realized she wanted to get caught. The sheer proximity of her husband, and the high chance of an errant sound drawing his attention, created the greatest aphrodisiac she had ever known. I could see it in her eyes, tits, and undulating hips. I could feel it in the moist embrace of her pussy as it continued to stroke me.




Might Have Been Ch. 06



I am the sex that you provide     (and I control you)I am the hate you try to hide     (and I control you)I take you where you want to goI give you all you need to know

– Nine Inch Nails, Mr. Self Destruct

In the summer of 2005, I had been accepted into a prestigious internship program at Columbia University. I had formed a close friendship at Chicago with a graduate student named Paul. He had been on the Fermilab project, and was sufficiently impressed with me that he arranged for a position on another high profile project, where I again helped write the modeling software. When Paul finished his dissertation, Columbia had snapped him up, and Paul was now trying to convince me to apply there for grad school next year. I liked Paul, trusted him not to steer me wrong, and Columbia had a solid reputation.

This summer internship was a trial run. I would get to work with a team of other undergraduates on a research project coordinated by Paul. If we were successful, I would have a high profile publishing co-credit, and would know whether I wanted Columbia.

What I hadn't expected was to be a social butterfly. The other interns were from all across the world, and most didn't know anyone in New York. We were all strangers to the world’s greatest metropolis, so we worked together by day and roamed the city by night. I had a knack for rising to a leadership role in any congregation of geeks, and this was no exception. I could hold my own or better with any of them intellectually, but I had a social/artistic side most of them lacked, which helped me with women, and enabled automatic promotion to alpha geek.

The internship group had fourteen members, three of whom were female. Crystal was both the most attractive and the most capable. She was slightly shorter than me, with long auburn hair that cascaded down to the small of her back, and she wore it pulled back from her pretty, freckled face and beautiful green eyes. Her eyes had a slight downward slope that cast a misleading hint of sorrow to her features. Her idiosyncratically full lips and breasts would have shouted “silicone” in other women, but she was so unassuming the men in the internship group voted nine to two that both were real.

Despite her Gaelic appearance and ancestry, Crystal defied stereotypes and insisted on being shy. If she had been more extroverted, I would have targeted her at the beginning of the summer. Instead, she had appeared uninterested, and I had heard about a boyfriend back home, so my romantic attentions went elsewhere. I briefly dated Casey, one of the other interns, and then Amara, who had been my most significant girlfriend between Heather and Tasha.

I had met Amara during a casting call for an Off-Off-Broadway production of Othello. On a lark, I had tried out for the part of Cassio. She had set her sights higher and aimed for Desdemona. We ended up reading together and hit it off. Neither of us got a part (and it was strongly implied we were wasting our time), but I took her out for coffee afterward, and discovered she was an architecture student at Columbia, and like me, had tried out just for the hell of it.

I dated Amara the rest of the summer, but the relationship dissolved in late August, when it was time for me to return to Chicago. I discovered Amara hadn't viewed me as a long-term prospect, and had seen my imminent departure as a plus. She was from India, and her parents still lived there. She was willing to defy her parents to the extent of dating an American, but she was unwilling to get serious with one. Unfortunately, she waited until late August to tell me this, which is why I missed my chance with Crystal.

As the summer progressed, Crystal warmed to me. In June, she mostly sat in the corner listening, or talked quietly with Laurie, the third female intern. By July, she was laughing at my jokes, and attending the theater events I organized – hitting the rush line to see shows like Spamalot, Wicked, and Doubt. Eventually, she actively flirted with me, laughing even at comments that weren't very funny, adjusting my clothes, and holding eye contact a little too long. She switched to wearing tighter v-neck t-shirts that showed off her chest, which attracted notice from more than just me. I know several of the other guys had asked her out, but they had all been politely shot down.

Her flirting culminated on a Friday night in early August. After working late, we had gone out for drinks at an Upper West Side bar specializing in buffalo wings. Guys being guys, a competition ensued as we worked our way up the heat index, until it was only me and one other person staring each other down over a basket of habanero wings. I had an endorphin high, but flames were emitting from my tongue. My opponent was from Thailand, and had kept an amused expression on his face the entire night – the look Roger Clemens would have if he found himself in a pitchers' duel with the best curveballer in the North Manhattan Little League.

Crystal had been cheering me on, but it was getting late. She wished everyone a good evening and announced, “I'm going to walk home.”

Everyone said goodbye, but she stood there for a few extra seconds, mutely pleading with me. I took the hint. Crystal was a small town Michigan girl, and while New York was safer now, she was still nervous about walking home alone.

I saluted my opponent in surrender. “I'm done too. Crystal, let me walk you home.”

Crystal smiled gratefully. I paid my bill at the counter, and picked up some of their habanero wing sauce as a kitchen condiment. We left the bar.

“You live a few blocks south of here?” I asked.

She nodded, and pointed to the hot sauce I had just purchased. “How can you handle that spicy food?”

We strolled down Amsterdam, and I flipped the bottle in my hand before stuffing it in my pocket. “Real men seek danger. Some wrestle alligators, others skydive, but only the elite dare to face the king of the chili peppers in its lair.” I always did comic exaggeration in deadpan.

“You're so funny!”

It was at best amusing, but I was never one to snub flirtation. I switched to small talk. “Laurie told me the two of you share a studio apartment?”

“Yeah, she is out-of-town this weekend.”

Oh, really. “Is she seeing her boyfriend in Philly?” Laurie went to U Penn during the academic year.

“Yes. Normally we walk each other home, so I appreciate your stepping in as escort.”

“No problem. I like walking in Manhattan anyway. Paul almost has me sold on coming here next year.”

“I like the school, but the city is so crowded. I grew up in a small town.”

“So did I, but I love Manhattan.”

We compared small-town experiences, and discussed grad school options, but the real conversation was nonverbal. She walked close to me, and would grab my arm whenever we passed someone, hanging on just a little too long, and releasing me with a lingering touch. She kept smiling and brushing her hair from her eyes, and somehow when I wasn't looking, an extra button of her blouse undid itself. Every time I looked at her, she had full eye contact with me – even after she almost walked into a street lamp.

I was dating Amara, but was still flattered by Crystal's attentions. I knew how shy she was, so I saw her flirtations as the equivalent of a more assertive woman throwing her clothes off and writhing on my lap.

“Thanks again for walking me home,” she said when we reached her building, gently touching my hand. “Would you like to come up for a drink?”

I almost declined. Amara and I had been dating for a month. We hadn't had any serious relationship talks yet, but I still knew she would consider it a betrayal if I hooked up with another woman. This was just a drink, I rationalized. My ego wanted to see what Crystal would do, and I could always retreat and remind her I was dating Amara. The clincher was that I really wanted a drink – my mouth was still burning from the habanero wings. I accepted, and we rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor of her building.

Crystal dashed around, picking up her flat – throwing some glasses in the sink, stowing a towel, and straightening books on a shelf. She offered me a beer, and I gratefully accepted, drinking half of it immediately in an attempt to quench the fire in my mouth. She opened one for herself as well.

Her studio apartment had the well-furnished appearance of a summer sublet. We sat on the two-person couch, angling our bodies toward each other, and continued our conversation. I remember she asked questions, and I did most of the talking. Crystal had a nice, soft mezzo-soprano voice, but she didn't overuse it. I would occasionally turn a question around, but her own answers were minimal. Once again, the real conversation was occurring in body language.

Crystal’s eyes never seemed to leave me. She would drink her beer and not even look at the glass, just gazing at me over the rim. She was wearing shorts in the August heat, and her crossed legs were set at the perfect angle for me to admire them. When I did, and returned my gaze to Crystal's face, I would realize her eyes had followed every motion of mine.

When I extended my arm across the top of the sofa, she mirrored the motion, placing the tips of our fingers just a centimeter apart. She continued to watch me – nodding, smiling, and laughing at all the right points.

Her questions weren't connected to each other. She didn't seem to be listening to my answers, but was instead losing herself in my voice, as if I mesmerized her. My inner biologist noted the secondary signs of sexual attraction in the human female – the moistening of parted lips, playing with hair, dilated pupils, a subtle rubbing together of her legs, and a slight flush to the skin of her face and neck. While I had been leaning back, Crystal stayed upright, displaying her breasts in better relief. I found myself staring at them for too long, and realized I had stopped talking. I immediately raised my gaze, but remained quiet, unsure of what to say.

Crystal joined me in silence. She knew I had noticed her arousal, and was waiting for me to act – anticipating it with every inch of her flesh. The longer I made her wait for my response, the more ardor she displayed. Her breathing quickened, enhancing the rise and fall of her breasts. She leaned forward slightly, as if preparing to either leap at me or catch me with her body. The corners of her full lips curled up in a sensuous smile. She only had eyes for my face – as if nothing else existed.

I felt delirious with power – with the effect I seemed to have on her, and I flashed my predator smile – that is, the way I would smile when I was on the hunt. Women saw it when I asked them on a date, usually coupled with a joke to avoid scaring them, and they often saw it before a sexual proposition. It was a smile that went well beyond confidence to arrogance, and right now it told Crystal I knew she wanted me.

She tilted her head slightly, so she was now staring up at me with a passive, sultry expression that promised heat and intensity – but only if I made it happen. She was waiting for me, and would wait for me as long as it took for me to act.

I met her gaze in silence for a full minute – the single most erotic minute of my life that didn't involve physical contact. I had revisited that minute thousands of times over the next six years, replaying it in my mind until every facial expression, every inhalation, and every shift of her legs was etched into my memory.

In my fantasies, I would order her to undress and she would meekly comply, leading to a night of sensual hedonism. In reality, however, I thought of the Garden of Eden, or at least the tale of it told by Hans Christian Andersen. The prince of the tale is warned by a beautiful fairy that she will come to tempt him each night, and if he kisses her, he will be expelled from the Garden. The first night, she comes to him naked and beckons him to follow. He does, and feels his temptation grow with every step he takes, until he can longer resist. He succumbs, and his sin causes Eden to fall into the earth once more. I knew I had taken several steps toward temptation already, and knew that with one more I would be unable to turn back. I thought of Amara and how disappointed she would be, and the spell was broken.

I stood, and said, “I'd better get going. Thanks for the drink.”

Crystal didn't appear disappointed. Her smile and eyes told me she knew exactly what had passed between us, and she would simply defer to my choice.

I left, went back to my own flat, and took a long, cold shower.

Her very acceptance of my refusal increased the promise of the moment. My relationship with Tasha was so centered on her, that a woman who deferred to me became one of my most powerful erotic fantasies.

Amara waited until I was already packed for Chicago, before she broke the news that if I returned to New York next year, there would be no renewal of our relationship. There had been no time to try again with Crystal.

Another universe and two years away in 2003, I sat in my Chicago dorm room, remembering Crystal. I remembered that intense erotic minute, and decided to see where it would lead. I also remembered my predator smile – lost shortly after I had begun seeing Tasha. In my hands, I held the resonance array, and a power supply purchased from Radio Shack. For the first time in nearly six years, the predator smile was back on my face, an old friend returned to stay as long as I needed it.

I flipped the switch, and Chicago dissolved into New York.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

August 5, 2005

Crystal faded in, emanating deference and sexual anticipation. All was as I remembered – the temperature of the room, the taste of habanero sauce and beer in my mouth, and the keening call of Crystal's passivity.

My hand lay close to hers on the back of the couch. I extended it just slightly, until it touched hers. The contact hit her like an electric shock – her eyes widened and she took a quick bite of air, but she did not grab my hand, or move closer. She still waited for a decisive move from me. I considered just scooting closer to her on the sofa and kissing her, but Crystal's passive carnality invited something more forceful and commanding.

“Take off your shirt,” I ordered in a slow, commanding tone, backed by confident eye contact that would tolerate no dissent.

Her eyes became saucers, and she finally broke eye contact and dropped her gaze. I wondered if maybe I had misjudged her, and she was now embarrassed. I saw her hands tremble slightly as she raised her hands to the buttons of her blouse and began undoing them. Her obedience sent a flush of power through my body.

After the last button was unfastened, she pulled her arms through the sleeves, shrugged her creamy shoulders, and allowed her shirt to fall behind her on the sofa.

Crystal displayed herself for me, as if seeking approval. The neck of her blouse concealed a chain necklace – an interlinked series of figure eights. Attached to the necklace was a jade pendant, matching her eyes. She wore a navy blue lace bra that was slightly too tight for her bountiful curves. I hadn't expected the silver bar pierced through her navel – she didn't seem the type. Crystal held her chest out proudly, but her whole body trembled, as if she were losing control of herself. When I said nothing, she merely lowered her head, once more deferring to my whims.

The way she waited for me to command her was... enticing. I had thought her passivity was just that she wanted me to initiate, but no – she seemed to want me to take charge and direct her actions.

This was new for me. I was drawn toward extroverted, spirited women, with fires in their bellies and songs in their hearts. I would have ignored the quiet Crystal if she hadn't been so obvious about her attraction for me. There was a part of me that was still frustrated by her lack of initiative, but another part was excited at Crystal's submissiveness, and how far it might go.

Was this it? Was this the key to my problems? Was I attracted to the wrong type of woman for me, seeking a backbone where I really needed someone more pliable? Tasha had steel in her spine, not a willow branch – was that why I was unhappy with her?

I gave Crystal another command. “Your shorts.”

Crystal rose and stood before me. She unbuttoned the top of her shorts, and shimmied her hips to shake them down her legs to her feet, where she stepped out of them. She turned away from me, and leaned slightly, presenting her behind just inches away from me.

I touched her, admiring the creamy skin and curves of her hips and flanks. She wore a navy blue thong that encircled her rear like a ribbon on a birthday present. The position of her bent-over ass invited a spank, so I gave her a mild smack on her cheeks. 

She gasped and leaned back into my hand.

“Take off your bra, and lie down on your bed,” I demanded.

Crystal obediently walked over to the bed, removing her bra as she did so. She lay down on her side, facing me. I saw her breasts for the first time – large brown nipples, each pierced with a small hoop. This woman was kinkier than she appeared.

She let one arm rest idly on the bed, but with her other hand she rubbed the skin where I had touched her ass. She was still hesitant about maintaining eye contact. She had been staring at me earlier, but ever since I commanded her to remove her clothes, she would only glance at my eyes, then immediately track down and away.

I stood and moved toward the bed. Crystal reached for her dresser, and opened a drawer. I guessed she was getting a condom, but no, her hand withdrew, holding long wisps of silk cloth, which she laid with reverence on the bed next to her.

The scarves were a colorful puzzle. I examined them for hints of purpose, but as soon as I touched them, Crystal rolled onto her back, expectantly placing her hands and feet near the posts of her bed. Her normally cream-colored face had turned a bright shade of pink, and her eyes were shut tight in humiliation.

She wants me to tie her to the bed.

I was not a bondage guy. One of my favorite things about sex was a woman's responsiveness. I loved feeling her hands run down my back, or her legs wrap tight around me. Tying Crystal down would deprive me of that, but she clearly wanted it, and the more I took charge, the more aroused she was getting – which was my other favorite thing about sex – helping a woman go delirious with ecstasy. No, I wasn't a bondage guy, but if it turned her crank, I was game to try.

Displaying a sense of confidence and experience I didn't feel, I tied the scarves around Crystal's hands and feet, and fastened the other ends to her bed posts. I wasn't sure of the best way to tie a woman to a bed, as that unfortunately wasn't one of my Boy Scout merit badge options, but I knew some camping and boating knots. I used a clove hitch around her limbs, and a square knot on the posts.

Crystal watched me work, testing each restraint as I finished. When her last limb was secured, she whispered, in a voice heavy with anticipation, “You've done this before.”

Yeah lady, I've gone camping lots of times. Outwardly, I just smiled as I completed my task.

My knowledge of bondage was limited to what I picked up from the occasional Savage Love column, and The Gimp character from Pulp Fiction. What does one do with a woman tied to the bed? Sex, obviously, but mounting her restrained form and simply fucking her brains out seemed like it missed the point, and Savage Love was proving an inaccurate road map – trust and safety words were supposedly important, and we hadn't established either.

Think it through. The only purpose of tying someone up is if you were going to do something to them they wouldn't let you do. The only reasons I could think of for wanting to be tied up were if you felt guilty about doing things you wanted to do, and wanted the illusion you were forced into them, or if you simply got off on submission and pain. Either way, my best course of action was to push the boundaries of the acceptable, and see how she reacted. Pinching? Tickling? Spanking? That struck me as a little pedestrian, but there was nothing wrong with learning to walk before I tried to run. Maybe the creative muse would strike if I stuck to the basics.




Might Have Been Ch. 06



The delay as I considered my actions just seemed to heighten the tension for Crystal. Her thong appeared a little damp, and she was writhing slowly on the bed within the limits of her confinement.

I stood at the side of the bed, and ran my fingers along her smooth Celtic skin – starting at the base of her foot, which flinched at the slight tickle. She didn't move as I traced the sinews of her calves and thighs, but when my fingers neared her loins, her hips twitched toward my hand. On instinct, I gave her a light smack along her flanks. She obediently held her hips still, and I heard a light whimper. Her smooth skin was now punctuated by goosebumps.

My fingers fluttered up her stomach, stopping to give a slight tug to the bar in her navel. She lifted her hips again in response, and I smacked her again. She cooed appreciatively.

I thought I was getting the hang of this.

Crystal's breasts were next. I had never been with a woman who had pierced nipples before, much less hoops. Why would a woman put hoops in her nipples? Wouldn't they hurt like fuck if you snagged them on something? Was that the point?

I played with one of the hoops, noticing how it penetrated her erect nipple. Crystal arched her neck to push her breasts up, and I allowed her the expression of arousal this time. It occurred to me that I should probably avoid punishing her for things I liked, and should only discipline her if I didn't like it – or was at least indifferent. I flicked the nipple hoop, testing how it moved through her flesh.

Crystal sighed and squirmed on the bed.

“Moaning your pleasure is good, but squirming indicates you don't like what I'm doing, and I want you to like it. So that gets punished.” I spanked her.

She let out a slight gasp, and then I heard her whisper, “You can hit harder if you like.”

My “spanks” had been light enough to cause a mild sting, no more. I didn't like hitting women. Twenty-eight years of conditioning on that point didn't vanish just because she asked for it. I ignored her.

I tugged the nipple ring, to see how she reacted. She squirmed, but didn't moan – the exact opposite of what I had told her. She was trying to provoke me into spanking her harder, but I refused.

Crystal huffed in exasperation.

I was losing control over the situation. If she wouldn't enjoy this, neither could I. She wanted me to torment her in some way, but damned if I was going to hit her hard. In a normal sexual situation I would ask the woman what she wanted, but that wasn't the game here. I was in charge. I was supposed to determine what she wanted, or make her want what I wanted. But how to do that if I weren't willing to force her in the way she preferred? My confidence was failing. I had been bluffing, and she was calling me down.

Crystal squirmed more, testing the reach and give of her bindings. I had left some slack for comfort, and she showed me that had been a mistake. I had left enough room for her to bend her knee, which she jabbed upward, in an attempt to hit my groin.

I had been bending over her to play with her breasts and nipple rings, and had left myself vulnerable. When I felt her move I flinched upward, and was just able to protect my unborn offspring. “Goddammit!”

I was angry, but still refused to hit her. Instead, I pinched a nipple – a little harder than I would have done if it were purely erotic.

That wasn't enough for Crystal. She started thrashing on the bed.

Then she slowed – and stopped – and starting whimpering – pleading at me with tearful eyes. “I'm sorry. I'll behave.”

What the fuck? She was acting like I had punished her.

“Please,” she said. “Make it go away. I'm sorry.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, but she had stopped trying to groin me. I reached for her nipple again to play with it some more, but she flinched from my touch.

“No, please no. Make the burning go away.” Tears were streaming down her face.

Burning?

“What burning is that, Crystal.” I asked as if it were a statement, hoping she would think I knew the answer I wanted.

It worked. “My... breast. Your touch makes me burn.” She didn't seem to mean that in a good way.

I was now convinced more than ever that I had no idea what the fuck was happening. She was saying my touch caused her pain?

Crystal pleaded again. “Make it go away.”

“How do I make it go away, Crystal.” Again, I asked as if I already knew the answer.

“I... don't know.” She was scared. She didn't think I would like that answer. “Umm... with your mouth. Kiss the pain away with your mouth.”

I liked that answer, but it still didn't make sense. Was she role-playing? Was she pretending I had punished her because I had proven unwilling to do it myself? I was confused, but I understood the request to kiss her. I bent over her supine form, feeling the heat of her body radiating against my skin. With light suction and the use of my tongue, I drew her nipple into my mouth.

Crystal sighed. “Oh, thank you, Lance, thank you.”

I played with the nipple hoop inside my mouth. The metallic flavor wasn't welcome, but I liked the way the ring could be pulled with the tip of my tongue.

Crystal began thrashing beneath me. “Oh God, my nipples are on fire!”

Damn, I was good.

“It burns. Ow!”

Maybe not. I pulled off of her. She was crying, flinching her chest away from me.

I was flummoxed. I had no idea what the fuck she was doing. I put my hands in the pockets of my cargo shorts while I thought. I felt a paper bag in my left pocket, containing a bottle, and I pulled it out to examine the contents – Willy's Wild Wings Scorchin' Habanero Sauce.

Of course – the habanero wings! I laughed, eliciting an expression of fear from Crystal. In the original version of this night, I had been eating habanero wings with my hands. I had washed them with the wet wipes on the table, but it must not have been enough to absorb the chili oil, and my mouth still had a slight fire as well. The chili oil was transferring from my mouth and hands onto one of the most sensitive parts of Crystal's body. No wonder she felt pain.

A wicked smile crossed my face.

“What?” Crystal's fear ratcheted to alarm. Her eyes were moons.

I held up the bottle and showed it to her. “I don't like hitting women, but I love hot sauce, and am happy to share mine with you.” I finally had the tool of control I wanted. The question was whether Crystal could take it. She was crying.

“Is my discipline too much for you?”

It was a challenge, but it was honest. Safety word or no, I wasn't going to hold her against her will.

Crystal shook her head.

“Good girl.” I went into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and pulled out the ice cube bucket, bringing it to the bed.

Crystal was squirming, muttering, “Please, please, please...”

I took an ice cube and applied it to her nipple, numbing the pain.

Crystal sighed in relief. “That feels so much better.”

I took the ice away. “Time for a little biochemistry lesson. Chili pepper heat works through a chemical called capsaicin, which activates the nerves in your skin that sense heat. Applying ice is only a temporary solution. It numbs the pain, but capsaicin is not water-soluble, so the heat will come back when the cold fades. Do you understand?”

Crystal bit her lip and nodded.

“You're going to have to earn the ice cube, and if you misbehave again, I'll add the heat somewhere else.” I patted the front of her thong.

Crystal pulled her hips back into the bed, away from me, and whimpered, “No.”

I felt a surge of elation. This could work. I had a punishment mechanism which would automatically return without application of ice. I could now make demands of her, and she would need to comply to earn the ice. I had her under control.

This was a different feeling for me – I was never in control. Was this what I needed? There was no way in hell Tasha would let me apply habanero sauce to her tits, and if I did it without her consent she would claw my face, and be off to the shower while I scuttled around on the floor trying to find where she threw my eyeballs.

Is that what I was learning here, that I needed to tame Tasha, or find someone with a more submissive personality? Did I have a destiny as some sort of bondage master, wielding Tabasco Sauce instead of a riding crop?

If so, why did I have no clue what to do with the almost-naked woman-in-heat lying on the bed in front of me? Again, I could have sex with her, but her actions were screaming I needed to build up to that. She was aroused, but she wasn't begging for sex yet.

That was it – I needed to get her to beg me, but how? I had my standard repertoire of kisses, caresses, breast love, and cunnilingus, but I was hamstrung by my pain-inducing hands and lips. If I were to use those, they had to be as punishment. So I had to find an excuse to punish her. How do I get her to misbehave when she was tied to a bed?

There was more than one kind of misbehavior. Crystal was shy, and had barely told me anything about herself. I would get her to talk. I had been silent for about a minute, but I figured Crystal would just take that as me proving that I would act in my own pace. She had said nothing, but she was starting to whimper again.

“Is the ice wearing off, Crystal?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to use it again?”

“Yes, please.”

“You need to earn it.”

“How?” she whined.

“I want you to tell me honestly how you feel right now. If I even suspect you aren't telling me the complete truth, you don't get the ice, so be convincing.”

“How I feel? My breast is burning. That’s how I feel.” She was being defiant.

“The pain will get worse unless you answer.”

She bit her lip, but her hips were moving slightly, as if she were trying to generate friction underneath her thong. “I feel scared.”

“And?”

She blushed. “I'm feeling hot – turned on.”

I pulled her nipple up by its hoop, and circled it with the ice cube.

Crystal exhaled a pent-up breath of relief and desire.

“Why does this turn you on?”

She didn't answer. Her nipple wasn't hurting any more.

I took her nipple in my mouth, warming it and flicking the nub with my tongue.

Crystal gasped in appreciation and tried to bridge her neck to push her breast deeper into my mouth, and then as the pain returned, she tried to withdraw.

I retaliated by shifting my attention to her other breast, pinching that nipple with my fingers, and then sucking it into my mouth where my tongue enveloped it with chili-laced saliva.

Crystal began bucking on the bed. “Oh God, it burns!”

I leaned up again. “Answer my question, why does this turn you on?”

“I like it. Use the ice, please.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“This is humiliating. I don't like to talk about it.”

“How hot are your nipples, Crystal?”

“Okay,” she conceded. “I like strong men who make me do things. I like being controlled. Please...”

I applied the ice to her left breast. The combination of ice and arousal left her nipples in a state where they could cut diamonds.

“Thank you, thank you. The other one too, please.”

“No. Why do you like being controlled?”

“I don't know. Maybe I'm just sick in the head.”

“Crystal, you're a physics major who is sharp enough to qualify for an elite program. Don't tell me you haven't thought about this deeper than you're pretending.”

She licked her mouth, with her hips doing a steady left/right squirm on the bed.

“It's who I am. Ice please.”

I ignored her. “How did you discover who you are?”

She was staring at the ice cube in my hand like it was life itself. “Maybe my dad. Ow ow ow.”

“Your dad?”

She could hear revulsion in my voice. “Don’t be sick. I'm an army brat. My dad was a major, and he was a control freak. Give me the ice now.”

“Not yet. More. How was he a control freak?”

She bit her lip before she spoke. “Everything in the house, and everything we did, had to be done his way, and had to be perfect. The table had to be set with the silverware lined up perfectly. Our school backpack had to be organized just so. Ow! He always told us what to do, and how to do it.”

“You missed that when you went away to college.”

She blushed as she squirmed from the heat on her breasts. “Yes. The guys I liked were always domineering, like my dad. It makes me feel comfortable and protected. Ice! Oh please! Ice!”

I iced both nipples. I glanced at her thong, which was soaked, and I stroked her through the fabric. She moaned, and arched her hips to meet my fingers, grinding herself against them.

She was ready, and I was steel within the confines of my own shorts, but I was curious about Crystal's last answer. I was many things, but no woman had ever described me as “domineering”.

“I'm not domineering, Crystal.”

“You could have fooled me.”

I patted her through the cloth of her thong, realizing that from her, this was a compliment.

She groaned and moved her hips in tiny circles, seeking maximum friction from my hand.

“Explain why you thought I might be able to control you.”

“I... wasn't sure. You liked being a leader. You took charge of our group right away. But you seemed...” I sensed she didn't want to use the word.

“I seemed...”

“...hesitant.”

“What was the word you wanted to say first.”

The pain was coming back now. “Ow, oh. Wimpy.”

I pinched her nipple. “That's for being disrespectful.” No man liked being called a wimp, even if it were sometimes true. “Yet, here we are.”

“Ow. Ice.”

“No.”

“Okay! I saw potential. And you have a nice body, you're cute, and funny, and I always had fun when you were around. I liked you, and I hadn't had anyone in three months since I left my boyfriend.”

I put the ice cube between my teeth and chilled her fiery nipples with my mouth.

“Oh, that feels so good,” she moaned.

I left the ice to melt in the valley between her breasts. “So why do you like being tied up?”

“I told you, I like a man in control.”

“I don't think that's it. I think you're ashamed of something, and need to be forced into it.”

I could tell by her blushing that the arrow had hit the mark, but she denied it. “No... I just like strong men.”

“Liar.” I ripped her thong away, exposing a landing strip leading to her sopping pussy. She was recently waxed, but she said she hadn't had sex in three months. Either I got lucky or she had planned this.

I opened up the bottle of habanero sauce and put one small drop on my index finger.

Crystal whimpered, “No, please no.”

“What is it you like being forced to do?”

She shook her head.

Her arousal had raised her clitoris from its hood, inviting my molten touch. Crystal thrashed her hips to avoid my hand as I brought it down, but I held her hip in place with my other hand, and gave her clit a light graze with my freshly chilied index finger.

“Oh God!” She shrieked as I set fire to her most sensitive nerve endings. Her hands pulled against the weight of the scarves, and I saw every muscle in her body tense in response to the pain.

I was quick with the ice cube, numbing the pain away. I ran the ice cube all around her erect clit, not holding it in one place for too long. Had I overdone it? This was her game, I reminded myself. If she wanted me to let her go, all she had to do was ask.

Crystal's body relaxed, but she was breathing hard. She rotated her hips in time with the circling ice cube, as if she were trying to fuck it.

“Does that feel good, Crystal?”

“Oh yes, God yes. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Are you going to answer my question now? What is it you're so ashamed of you need to be forced?” Was it anal sex? I didn't think so. She had wanted me to tie her face up.

“Just sex.”

“You're what, twenty-one? You can't be hung-up on sex.”

“Just sex.”

I took away the ice cube.

Crystal tensed and gritted her teeth in anticipation. Her hands wrapped around the silk scarves that bound them, and her eyes watered as the fire returned.

I watched the pain build in her eyes, then I took it away by re-applying the ice cube. I noted the fire on her breasts seemed to have died down, or it was insignificant compared to the fire between her legs.

Crystal relaxed again, bucking her hips slightly in response to the ice.

I sensed she was still concealing something. I didn't much care what the answer was. If she didn't want to tell me what sex act she wanted to be forced to do, that was really her problem, but she did seem to get off on being punished, and her defiance was an excuse to punish her.

“Crystal, I don't think you're being entirely honest with me. If you want the ice, you're going to have to earn it. If it isn't going to be answering my questions, you need to come up with something else.” I took away the ice once more.

“What should I do?”

“You tell me.”

“It's starting to hurt again.”

“You need to earn the ice, Crystal.”

“Please...” The “s” stretched into a long hissing sound through her teeth, and her hands grabbed the scarves in preparation for another fiery onslaught.

“Please what?”

“Please... let me suck your cock.”

I applied the ice to her clit, causing Crystal to gasp in relief. I removed my clothes until I stood naked before her, and moved to the head of the bed, where I could lean over her, and still reach down to ice her clit when the pain grew unbearable.

As soon as I was within range of her mouth, her tongue graced me with a long lick. I moved closer, and she kissed and licked up the length of the shaft.

This wasn't going to work all that well. With this awkward angle, she wasn't going to be able to take me in her mouth, so I moved on top of her, inverted in a sixty-nine position. “I'm going to fuck your mouth, Crystal,” I said. “If you want the ice, make it good.”

Crystal opened wide, and wrapped her tongue around me as I entered her mouth. She moved her head up and down to take me as deep as she wanted, and her tongue lapped greedily. Her hips began moving in a rhythm which had the ice brushing up against her labia.

Her inner heat had reduced the cube to a pebble, so I grabbed another ice cube from the bucket, and put this one between my teeth. This left my hands free to explore the creamy, soft skin of her stomach, hips and thighs, while my mouth had its own fun.

Once the fire in her clit was under control, I moved the ice into my mouth, and stored it in my cheek. I licked and kissed her clit – it tasted like chili-flavored girl, almost a habenero-lime flavor. I warmed her with my mouth until I could tell the pain was returning. Then I licked her clit with enthusiasm.

The pleasure of my mouth and the pain of the capsaicin was a dual shock to her brain, and Crystal moaned and writhed beneath me. The humiliation of having me fuck her face seemed to amplify her arousal even further. She sucked me deep inside her throat and worshiped me with her tongue. As the pain increased, she added cries and whimpers to her gasps of ecstasy. I let the pain rise until it overpowered the pleasure, and she expelled my cock from her mouth and released a wail of masochistic lust.

I allowed the scream, then returned the ice. As the pain vanished, she sighed, “Oh thank you, thank you,” and fucked me once more with her mouth. I repeated this cycle a half-dozen times, sending her into a sexual frenzy. Her moans and cries grew louder, her thighs clenched around my face, flaunting the wetness of her pussy, and her arched back and legs were levitating her hips three inches off the bed. Finally, she could take no more.

She pushed me out of her mouth so she could beg for release. “Please, oh please...”

I climbed out of the sixty-nine position, and knelt next to her on the bed. I continued circling her clit with my fingers, letting the fire build. “Please what...”

“Please put it in me.”

“Put what in you?”




Might Have Been Ch. 06



“Your cock. I need your cock inside me.”

“Why?”

“Oh please, I'm burning. My pussy is burning again. It needs...”

“Yes, it needs my cock. What does it need my cock to do?”

“It needs for you to fuck my pussy.”

“Your pussy needs it, or you need it?”

“I need it. I need you to fuck me.”

“Have you earned it yet?”

“I was a good girl, I sucked your cock. Was it good?”

“Yes, Crystal, it felt wonderful, but are you really a good girl?”

“You said it felt good.”

“I was talking about you. What kind of girl likes having a man punish her to get excited?”

“This kind of girl.”

“What kind of girl is that?”

I was expecting her to say “a bad girl”, or “a naughty girl”, but Crystal surprised me yet again. “I'm a dirty whore. I'm a twisted, perverted girl. I'm a shameful, unworthy bitch. I'm a kinky little slut. I'm your kinky little slut.”

Her torrent of self-deprecations was one of the more erotic things I had ever heard a woman say, and I felt ashamed of how I responded to such degradation – but she had earned herself a fucking. I brushed her clit once more with the ice cube, and then knelt between her legs. I lifted her hips until they were resting on my thighs, as I wanted the use of my hands.

The ice was wearing off again – she was starting to whimper and squirm. I placed myself at her entrance, and teased her clit with the ice, while I pushed my way inside her.

I felt the familiar sensation of hot velvet walls closing around me, but I felt something else as well – a slight burning along the base of my shaft.

Fuck, the skin of my cock had touched her chilied vulva, and I was going to pay the price.

Crystal could tell from the expression on my face, and she gave me a saucy smile. “It burns, doesn't it?”

“You knew this would happen.”

“Big man can dish it out but can't take it?”

I had intended to use the ice to keep her clit cool while I fucked her, but when she taunted me, I threw it to the side. “Let's see who can take it.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened.

I placed my hands on her hips for leverage and thrust my flaming cock inside her. The electric sensation of sex competed with the burning of fire, but as long as I was moving inside her, sex was winning.

Crystal wrapped her hands around the scarves. Her eyes slammed closed and tears seeped from the corners. Her neck was arched back into her pillow, and her mouth opened in a wide, soundless “O”.

I reached one hand forward to tug on one of her nipple hoops, and Crystal gasped and opened her eyes in pained lust, telling me all I needed to know. She loved this. The pain for me was a distraction from the pleasure, but for her pleasure and pain were boon companions.

The flames that licked me grew higher as I thrust into her. The balance between pleasure and pain was tilting in favor of the latter. The only way to keep the anguish at bay was to fuck her harder, which I did.

Crystal threw her head back and howled, “Oh God! I'm on fire!” Tears streamed down her face.

The same fire engulfed me. Withdrawing would have admitted weakness. If she could take the pain, so could I. I slammed into her harder. I felt a bolt of pleasure rising inside me, as I prepared my own release.

Crystal hadn't stopped coming. Her mouth emitted a low keening sound that was half orgasm/half tortured cry. She knew the fire would only stop with my own climax, and decided to encourage it. “Yes, screw your whore with that hot cock of yours. Fuck your little slut. I love it. I'm such a slut that I love it!”

With her pussy walls blazing around me, I rammed deep and exploded within her. My hands grabbed the hoops in her breasts to give them one final tweak, which sent Crystal over the edge once more. Her squeal pierced the air with such force it almost caused more pain than the fire on my cock.

As my climax subsided, all that was left was pain.

Ice. I needed ice.

The orgasmic tone to Crystal's cries stopped, and all I could hear from her were gasps and whimpers.

I withdrew from Crystal, and grabbed two fistfuls of ice, applying one to her loins and the other to mine. This was just a temporary solution. Capsaicin was fat-soluble, so I needed some sort of oil to make it go away. This being a woman's apartment, I searched for a bottle of lotion, and saw a dispenser of skin cream on the bookcase. I grabbed it, and noticed it had been partially concealing her digital video camera.

More specifically, it had been concealing the red blinking light on her digital video camera, which was aimed at the bed.

“What the fuck is this?” I yelled, pointing at the camera.

“Oh God. It hurts!”

I slathered a handful of lotion on my cock, and felt blessed relief. I quickly untied the knots to Crystal's wrists and threw the lotion on the bed next to her. She began using it to soothe her own pain, working the lotion around her loins.

“What the fuck is this?” I repeated.

“Nothing.”

“Like fuck it's nothing. You were recording us.” I remembered her going over to the bookshelf when we first got here. She must have turned it on.

“It's a keepsake. I just want to remember you.”

She was lying. “I don't think you will be forgetting me. So you won't mind if I delete it.” I picked up the camera.

“No!” She shouted. “He will–” She cut herself off.

“Who will what?”

She didn't answer.

I started fiddling with the buttons.

Crystal was undoing the knots in her ankles, but proved less adept than me. She gave up. “My boyfriend. He will be so angry at me if you delete it.”

Boyfriend? “I thought you left him.”

“Yes, I left him back in Michigan.”

(“Left” was more ambiguous than I thought.) “He wants you to record yourself having sex with me?”

“Oh God, this is so embarrassing.” She grabbed a blanket and covered herself with it, suddenly discovering modesty.

“This is what you were ashamed of, isn't it.”

She nodded. “We're kind of into the whole dominant/submissive thing. With me being away all summer this was his idea of trying to keep me obedient.”

“How?”

“Have someone else discipline me, but record it so he could watch, and I would know I was following his orders. He was getting pissed I hadn't found anyone all summer, and he will make me punish myself if I don't have something to show him. Please don't delete it.”

I had no idea whether I was going to be famous someday, but damned if I would ever be Kardashianed. I punched the buttons and deleted the video.

“No!” she wailed, and fell on the bed in tears.

I was too pissed to offer comfort or words of understanding, and went to the bathroom to clean myself up. I rinsed my groin with soap and water in the bathtub until the burning finally stopped, then dried myself off and went into the main room. I had calmed down enough to talk more. “What kind of sick boyfriend wants to watch his girl get tied up and used?”

Maybe I wasn't that calm.

Crystal just looked at me, face red with shame and accusation. She didn't need to say it. What's more sick – watching or doing it?

I couldn't meet her gaze. “We all have our kinks, but that goes beyond healthy, and getting video of me without asking is a different level of wrong altogether.”

She nodded, guilty. “I'm sorry.”

“You knew it was wrong.”

She nodded.

“You did it anyway.”

Her expression said, Duh.

“Why?”

“He's my... my... I do what he says.”

“What happens if you don't do what he says.”

“He punishes me.”

I recalled her request for me to hit her harder. I peered closer at Crystal's exposed legs and arms, extending from beneath the blanket, and noticed things I should have noticed earlier – the pink sheen of scar tissue from oil or wax burns, and little white scar lines on her wrists and ankles. I felt sick.

“He shouldn't punish you like that.”

“You did.”

“You wanted it.”

“That's what he says.”

“No, I mean, you could have asked to stop any time you wanted. I would have untied you, and we would have been done.”

Crystal's face contorted in disbelief, as if I were crazy. My stomach churned and I feared I would vomit from disgust at myself. I hadn't known.

“Do you like doing what he says?” I asked.

“Sometimes. That's how it started. I like control, I told you that. It doesn't matter if I don't like it.”

I always wondered how relationships like hers drew the line between kink and abuse. I suspected her boyfriend had crossed it.

“It does matter. You're beautiful, smart, and capable. You can have any guy you want, and most of them would love to tie you up and discipline you if that is your thing. But you get to set the limits.”

“No, he needs me to set no limits.”

“Why do his needs trump yours?”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me.”

“I love him, and he needs to do this to me more than I need to stop him.”

“That's no excuse for him making you do something you know is wrong.”

“No one understands. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices for love.”

Sometimes you have to make sacrifices for love.

Her words hit me like a bullet between the eyes. My head reeled and I collapsed onto Crystal's sofa.

I had used similar words talking to Sarah, justifying why she should have accepted Dave's offer to give up his dreams and follow her. I hadn't really been thinking of Dave and Sarah when I said those words, but of me and Tasha.

Thomas Kuhn described how science progressed through paradigm shifts, where scientists stick with a given model until it becomes unwieldy, and they suddenly switch to a new one. The canonical example was the shift in thinking from geocentric orbits to heliocentric orbits that followed the Copernican Revolution.

Love isn't science, but I had my own paradigm shift at that moment in Crystal's apartment. Crystal had submitted so deeply to her boyfriend, that she had lost herself, and she justified and exalted that loss in the name of love. She saw herself as the hero, but to anyone else she was clearly the victim.

I was no different.

It was as if I were standing outside of myself, looking in, seeing the truth of my life for the first time in six years. I wasn't the romantic man making sacrifices for the woman he loved. I was the emotionally-abused victim, rationalizing and romanticizing my own co-dependence and emasculation.

I hated Tasha more than I ever had – almost as much as I hated what I had done to myself. “I understand more than you think. Let me guess,” I said. “He can be wonderful and kind, and you sometimes catch glimpses of the man you fell in love with, when you do the things you know are wrong. You have given so much of yourself, that the idea he isn't worth it is inconceivable. No one understands, not your friends, not your family. They don't get how important you are to him – how much he needs you. You sacrifice everything, and the only thing he's willing to sacrifice is you.”

Crystal shrank from my words, finally curling up in a ball as tears flowed from clenched eyes.

Silk scarves, domination, and control games were not my area of expertise.

This was.

I gently climbed into bed next to Crystal, and lay down beside her under the blanket – holding her – planning to hold her for as long as it took to convince her she deserved it.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

“You need to use that wonderful noggin of yours for something better than self-deception.”

A snake rolled by, curled up in a circle and holding its own tail in its mouth.

“Was that a hoopsnake?” I asked. They were supposed to be legendary creatures, not real ones.

“They're poisonous,” she said.

“I'll protect you.”

She laughed, and her hand shot out, seizing a snake. She kept the venomous, fanged mouth at bay until she snapped its neck with a quick flick of her wrist. The snake's tail fell from its mouth as it died, and when it hit the ground, it lay straight, like a proper snake. “It's sweet you want to rescue me,” she said. “You're a romantic. I loved that about you, but it can be a trap.”

“Trap?” I asked.

“Fairy tales. The knight saving the princess from the dragon. Love conquering all. You live in a fantasy world. Girls fall into that trap all the time. They wait for Prince Charming to bail them out of bad life decisions, but if he does ever arrive, they find he just wanted a laundress he could fuck a few times a week, or he's an abusive, cheating bastard.”

“I wasn't waiting for a Prince Charming. I don't swing that way.”

“You were waiting for a Snow White, and some girl suckered you into being her hero.”

“Not all Snow Whites need rescuing.”

“That's true.”

“If only I knew where to find such a creature.”

Her ruby red lips curled in an enigmatic half-smile, and she brushed her raven-black hair away from her porcelain skin.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Crystal had nestled in my arms for most of the night, but when she awoke, she nudged me, and asked me to leave. She needed help, but I wasn't the right person to walk her through it.

“Crystal, does Laurie know about the nature of your relationship with your boyfriend?”

“No, I couldn't...”

“You can, and you will.” Laurie was sharp and practical, and would know how to help Crystal. I would drop Laurie a note to make sure Crystal followed through.

I stopped at the door. “I'm sorry, Crystal, When we were having sex, I thought you were into it. The games we were playing aren’t normally my thing.”

She released a slight smile. “No, that felt good. You never let it get out of hand.” She paused. “You should consider doing that more. You're good at it.”

No, I really shouldn't. The sick feeling in my stomach returned, as I closed the door on Crystal's flat. As intoxicating as the feeling of power had been, for me this had just been a playful fantasy. Crystal's subservience in bed was a nice diversion from the ordinary, but there was a reason why I pursued spirited, aggressive women. Crystal was just another form of temptation, not salvation.

I had fallen once, and I would not fall again. I knew what I had to do, but wanted to make one stop first.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

August 6, 2005

Her body was a violin in the hands of a concert master, stepping, leaping, stretching and spinning in precise coordination with the needs of the music and the dance. Four other dancers flanked her as they moved through the routine she had composed – mirroring, withdrawing, freezing, or shadowing according to the dictates of the dance.

I had never really seen Sarah dance before, at least not like this. I had seen her star turn as Lola in our senior year musical – Damn Yankees, and I had been dragged by Dave to see one or two of her recitals for her dance troupe in Rochester, but she had progressed far beyond that.

Most of what I knew of dancing came from some ballroom lessons and watching old MGM musicals, but it seemed an unusual song choice – Push It. Sarah had always been a fan of Garbage. Most choreographers seemed to prefer a neutral song that wouldn't overpower the dance. At least that was why I presumed so many dance numbers were set to musically-static bubble-gum pop. In contrast, this song was dynamic.

I thought I understood the themes of Sarah's composition. Each dancer was given a moment to shine, while the others arranged their bodies to draw attention to the featured performer. The next dancer would then build on the previous movements, and elaborate or improve on them. The leaps were higher or faster, or the movements more technically complex or physically difficult. It was a fugue of motion.

After the last dancer had their moment in the spotlight, the dance shifted from a sequence of individual movements to an ensemble performance – each dancer using their skills to make the others shine. Bodies became platforms for aerial leaps, positions were impossibly held, and dancers carried each other over their heads to soar through the air.

Sarah whirled her way through a kinetic explosion of music and form. The floor of the Julliard dance studio was her canvas – her base block of marble – her blank score sheet – upon which she would create.

When the dance stopped, I applauded. Sarah's eyes turned to see who had interrupted her rehearsal, and her eyes opened wide in recognition and surprise.

Then her eyes narrowed, and she returned to her rehearsal, ignoring me. Sarah had never been much for grudges, but the contents of my excoriating letter from three years ago must have angered her beyond precedent – deservedly so.

The scales had fallen from my eyes, and I had realized Sarah had been right all along. I had been the fool. I knew the dream of Sarah from last night meant nothing, but I had hoped for commiseration, or a pep talk, before the next step on my journey. I wasn't going to get it.

I nodded. It was just.

I would face Tasha as I should – alone.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

NOTE: Thanks for reading. Please vote and let me know your thoughts.



Might Have Been Ch. 07



Author's Note: Warning, for those of you who care not a jot for chapter order. Do not start reading this story with this chapter. If you haven't been reading our witty romp so far, this chapter will confuse the bejesus out of you, and may cause seizures, hiccups, and necrolepsy. No that last isn't a typo - you may indeed experience random moments of death. Don't say I didn't tell you.

CHAPTER SEVEN

And I loved you when our love was blessedAnd I love you now there's nothing leftBut sorrow and a sense of overtime

-- Leonard Cohen, Closing Time

February 16, 2006

The sun over Chicago is consumptive -- winter white and coughing up a bloody sky as it dies. I didn't remember if I had observed the sunset the first time I lived this day, but no matter -- I would have noticed the pretty over the pestilent.

She arrives with the dusk, and the sense of deja vu becomes overwhelming. The settled scents of Colombian dark roast are disturbed by the breeze from the door, and the aroma bounces through the air like motes of dust. I glance up from my laptop, ceasing work on my thesis, and see her enter once more -- an echo from memory and time.

Truly beautiful women turn the world unreal. My peripheral vision vanishes in a swirl of vertigo, taking the coffee shop with it. All I can see is her. Dark, braided hair sweeps past her shoulders, exposing a face that speaks of cross-cultural romance and international migration -- high cheekbones and full lips -- a slight frame and almond eyes hinting of Southeast Asia -- the olive skin of the Mediterranean -- the blue eyes of a Norman princess.

I divine new meanings with every glance at her face. Her countenance is a canvas on which her troubles paint dolorous masterpieces. Her blue eyes aren't framed by whites, but reds. Her nose is raw, and her bottom lip seems to quiver with every breath.

A heavy feeling of suffocation makes me realize I have forgotten to take my own breath since she walked in. How can she still affect me so?

Her form is concealed by a long dark coat, but she is slender, wearing stylish boots and jeans that adhere to her skin. She is a woman hiding behind herself -- fearful of exposure but having nothing as a shield except her own beauty. Our eyes lock as she scans the shop. I see no recognition from her, and I hide my own.

I am instantly conscious of my appearance. I remember the same reaction nearly six years ago in my own timeline. I had appreciated choosing my olive turtleneck and leather bomber jacket. I hadn't shaved in a couple days out of laziness, but with the clothes I could pass as casually rugged rather than scruffy. This time I just felt scruffy.

Following my memory, I don't break eye contact, and give a slight nod. A pained smile flickers on her face. It isn't an invitation, but embarrassment. She turns to the barista and orders tea -- her voice laden with pathos.

She sits on the couch at the opposite end of the shop -- she is here to forget rather than contemplate her troubles. I can see what she is reading -- Beowulf is on the table in front of her, and John Gardner's Grendel is in her hands. I wonder which English Lit class had assigned this particular paper.

Every few minutes, she pauses her reading to stifle tears, embodying an angel in misery. I have never seen a damsel more distressed.

Even now, knowing this is just the tip of an iceberg of despair, every protective instinct tells me I should save her -- to ask her what is wrong -- convince her by word and deed to have faith in men, but I respect her implicit request for privacy and don't talk to her. I am an actor playing the part of myself, and I didn't speak to her the first time I lived this day.

Shortly before six I leave for my night class.

It is the first time I ever saw Tasha.

I despair at my reaction to her. The last few subjective years should be a vaccine. How can re-living my first sight of her still feel like I am truly seeing her for the first time? If she still has this effect on me, my cause is lost. I grasp the resonance array inside the pocket of my coat, finding the battery pack. Because the pack is self-contained and attached to the array, it comes with me when I use the array to jump. I am now free from the need of continually finding a new power supply.

Remembering the smell of cinnamon, and picturing the cover of Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, I grasp the array and jump.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

February 23, 2006

We are in the coffee shop again, exactly one week after I first saw her. I am here most weekdays in the late afternoon, killing time between classes, but I haven't seen her again until today. This time she carries Gravity's Rainbow. She is pouring artificial sweetener into a tea that smells of cinnamon. She doesn't seem as troubled as she was the previous week.

I am in line behind her, getting a refill of my own black coffee. I can recall our first conversation from memory, and decide to embrace full method acting, trying to re-live every emotion I experienced the first time. It should be easy. "I noticed last week you had Gardner. This week it's Pynchon. Is there a class on postmodern American fiction?"

She acts uncomfortable, wary of pick-up attempts, but I made a point of appealing to her brain, and she meets my eyes. "Not really," she says in a lilting soprano, "it's just for fun."

I am intrigued. Not many people can slog through Pynchon and consider it fun. "I tried Crying of Lot 49 last summer. I heard Pynchon was a physicist, and wanted to see what his book would be like."

She is still uncomfortable, but follows up. "You could have chosen Carl Sagan, David Brin, or a dozen others. Why Pynchon?" Her voice has a hint of a southern accent. Either she grew up there, and moved early in life, or she is trying to train it out of her voice.

I am impressed that off the top of her head, she could name other physicist-authors. "Pynchon has literary cred, and is supposedly on the shortlist for a Nobel Prize. I wanted to experience art created by a scientist."

"Why's that?" She is genuinely curious now.

"Brain of a physics geek, soul of an artist." I point to my head and chest in turn.

She looks at me fully for the first time, and her lips part in a wide grin. I am dazzled -- it's like the sun appearing after a storm.

I nod to her, and return to my chair. I am a connoisseur of intelligent, beautiful women. They are too smart to fall for lines, and are suspicious of most approaches by men -- viewing them as clumsy attempts to get in their pants. They seek a rare breed themselves, and the trick is to convince them you are someone who will challenge them, and not be threatened by them. This is my move -- pique a woman's interest, and then withdraw. It lowers their defenses, and leaves them wanting more contact.

She sits in a chair across from me, and removes her coat, offering a better appraisal of her form. A dark blue sweater brings out her eyes. She is thin-boned and appears delicate, but has nice curves.

We make eye contact more often, as she reads her book and I work on my laptop. We don't say anything more, until it's time to leave for my class. I pack up my computer, give her a smile, and say, "See you next week," certain she will be here again.

She seems taken aback by my presumption, but she is also smiling. She likes me, and hopes to see me again.

I leave the coffee shop, round the corner, and take a deep breath. It's harder than I thought. I am losing myself. The best person to provide an antidote to Tasha, is Tasha herself. I grasp the array, and choose a new destination.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

March 6, 2009

It's the night Watchmen opens, almost three years into our relationship. It was one of my favorite books, and I have been anticipating the movie for a year. I am planning to see it with several friends from work. Tasha wants to come with us.

"I don't think you will like it," I say.

"You like it. We usually like the same things."

"You don't have tolerance for violence. It's going to be violent."

"All comic books are violent. Wham! Pow!"

"This isn't Adam West as Batman. It's rated R for a reason."

"Please? I don't want to be alone tonight."

"You walked out of The Dark Knight because of the violence. If you go, you aren't walking out on this."

She agrees, and I take her with me.

Tasha makes it halfway through the movie. Dr. Manhattan has the ability to see time non-linearly, with every moment of his life happening simultaneously. He reflects on that life through a series of flashbacks, including shots of carnage in Vietnam.

That's it for Tasha. "Lance, I can't watch this any more. It's horrible," she whispers.

"I warned you."

"We need to leave."

I knew this would happen. "Wait for me in the lobby, or duck into another film. Text me which one and I'll find you."

"The whole point of tonight was for us to do something together."

No, I don't say, the point of tonight was for me to see this movie with friends who will actually like it. "I want to finish watching it."

She is insistent. "Lance, please take me out of the theater." She is no longer whispering, speaking in a normal voice.

Patrons glare, and we get several shushes.

If I don't follow her, she will make a scene and we will be kicked out anyway. I am defeated, and I know it. I make excuses to my friends, who act uncomfortable, and I escort Tasha out of the theater.

She claims she is too tired for sex when we get home. I have sacrificed so much that all I have left is a mere movie, and it isn't nearly enough for her.

I jump.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

March 2, 2006

It's exactly one week after our second meeting -- three years prior to the incident at the theater. I am back in the coffee shop. I have flirted with the barista over the previous year. She likes me but has a boyfriend, and has sometimes helped me approach female customers. She nods to me as Tasha enters.

Tasha smiles when she sees me, sits down, and pulls out a book. This time, she is reading Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five. It's one of my favorites. I tell her so.

"Why do you like it?" She marks the spot in her book, and closes it. I take it as a sign she welcomes a conversation.

"People are too passive in their approach to life. Billy Pilgrim is 'unstuck in time', and knows exactly how his entire life will unfold. Yet he changes nothing, even a bad marriage and his own murder. Vonnegut satirizes useless fatalism while remaining entertaining and clever. It's impressive."

She purses her lips, and screws up her face in a cute way. She is thinking. "I don't believe it's a satire. Vonnegut is expressing his own feeling of impotence in watching the destruction of Dresden during World War II. If you can't stop that, why stop anything? He's laughing at the darkness so he doesn't cry."

I sense no likely agreement. "I think we need Kurt Vonnegut here to settle the argument."

"Oh! Like in Annie Hall--"

"--Where Woody Allen pulls Marshall McLuhan out of nowhere to win an argument." We are already completing each other's sentences.

"Exactly! I love that film!"

"Me too. It's not nearly as good as Annie Hall, but there is this wonderful scene in Back to School where Rodney Dangerfield hires Vonnegut to write a paper for him about the meaning of Vonnegut's work, and the paper gets an F from the teacher, who accuses him of plagiarism and adds 'whoever did write this doesn't know the first thing about Kurt Vonnegut'. I sometimes wake up from nightmares where this is true." I smile mischievously. "In my nightmare, I ask Vonnegut what his books mean. He tells me he has no clue -- that he was just high when he wrote them."

"'So it goes.'" She smiles as she quotes Billy Pilgrim, passively accepting another of life's horrors.

It's rare I meet someone who can intelligently discuss my favorite books, and even more rare the person is a stylish beauty. She is quicker on her feet than anyone I have met since Sarah, and she shares my interests more than Sarah did.

"Have you ever read Tropic of Cancer?" she asks.

"Shh, keep your voice down."

She is puzzled. "Why?"

"I'm as open-minded as they come, but most people object to discussing pornography in public."

"He's not porn!" She is smart enough to tell I am winding her up.

I feign confusion. "I could be wrong -- those were the only parts of the book that were readable. If he isn't porn, I'll have to throw my copy away."

"You just like a traditional narrative."

"Stream of consciousness can engage the mind, but only a story can engage the soul."

She protests, and our conversation spirals off from there. I am enraptured. We talk books, philosophy, music, history, science, movies. She has a higher tolerance for bad movies than I do, loving romantic comedies.

I express mock dismay that anyone with mostly-impeccable taste would enjoy Must Like Dogs.

"I guess I shouldn't tell you that Twilight is a guilty pleasure." She has the good manners to look sheepish.

I put my hands to my face, and open my mouth in a silent scream.

"Are you imitating Edvard Munch, or Macauley Culkin?" she asks.

"Culkin was actually Munch's model for The Scream. Culkin was trying to hit on this beautiful, brilliant woman, but then he discovered she loved Twilight. Witnessing the expression on his face, Munch said, 'this is the face of true despair', and pulled out his palette."

She raises her eyebrows while she laughs. I have confessed to what we both know to be true, that I am trying to pick her up, but I am doing so in a way that evokes confidence and humor. In response, she touches my hand.

"But in appreciation of your honesty," I say, "I'll confess a love of Kung Fu movies."

"I think Jet Li is hot, and I have most of his on DVD."

"What's your favorite?"

"Once Upon a Time in China."

I toast her taste with my drink.

"The lemniscate," she says, peering down at my notebook.

There is an infinity symbol doodled in the upper right corner, amidst my failed attempt to draw Escher stairs during a boring lecture last week on noncommutative geometry. "Not many people know it's called that," I say. She impresses me again.

She traces the curve with her finger. "I love symbols. Do you know its history?"

"I think it's based on the ouroboros -- the snake eating it's own tail, representing infinity as an endless, recursive cycle."

She is also impressed. "That's one explanation, but no one really knows. It was first used by a Seventeenth Century mathematician. It's probably derived from the Greek symbol for Omega -- the end of the alphabet."

"You ever heard of John Nash? The guy from A Beautiful Mind?"

She nods.

"So he's stark, raving mad, right? There's a story that during a lecture, a student asked him to define infinity. Nash started drawing a line on the chalkboard, continued it on the walls of the room until he hit the door, then exited into the hallway and never came back to class the rest of the semester."

She covers her mouth as she laughs.

"It's apocryphal, and probably not true," I caution.

"Who cares! It's a good story."

Our entire conversation bounces from topic to topic like Tigger on meth, but I never lose her. She is testing me -- as I am testing her -- dropping art and cultural references in a dance of aesthetics, wit, and memory. How quick are you? Would we enjoy watching the same movies or plays and discussing them afterward? Would you be boring after two months, like almost every other person I try to date? Can you keep up with me? We are probing each other for weaknesses, finding none.

I am delighted. I have never felt a connection like this with anyone. She has a fierce, passionate curiosity about anything and everything. She drinks information, digests it, and it becomes part of her. She is the smartest woman I have ever encountered, and our tastes and senses of humor are uncannily alike. I don't always agree with her, but that's part of the fun.

What makes it more amazing is that my feelings are reflected in her. I have never seen a woman so captivated by me. Her eyes are aglow as she hangs on my every word, laughs at my best jokes, and groans at my worst ones. She is giggling and blushing like a girl half her age. I can tell that when we finally part, she will be calling her best friends and raving about this incredible guy she met.

I feel scared and drunk. I know, with perfect certainty, that I have found The One. I am convinced I could gaze into her eyes for the rest of my life. I could talk to her forever. I could make love to her through eternity, and I long to prove it. I am falling in love with her before I know her name.

The realization stops me, and I interrupt. "I have been having this amazing conversation for the past two hours, and we haven't even been introduced."

She smiles so broadly I can count her teeth. The contrast from the sadness two weeks ago is striking, and I bask in the knowledge that I am the reason for the change in her mood. She realizes she hasn't answered my question, and composes herself. "Natasha."

I purse my lips, trying not to say what I am thinking.

She rolls her eyes and laughs. "Say it," she invites.

"What?"

"I recognize the look. You're thinking of Rocky and Bullwinkle."

"No, never."

Her head shakes, evincing mock disappointment.

"I plead innocent," I insist.

Skepticism surfs across her eyebrows. "Uh huh. Your name is?"

"Lance."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lance."

"You as well."

"Don't you have class, Lance?"

"I decided to ditch it half-way through your defense of Henry Miller. Any woman with that strong an opinion on pornography is worth cutting a class on quantum chromodynamics. Quarks can wait."

"He's not porn, you goof." Tasha is strangely pleased. I see it now, but didn't see it then. As soon as I told her I was cutting class, a flush of arousal courses through her, settling finally in her cheeks. She takes sacrifice as a love offering -- the only kind she accepts. Ditching class for her is the first of many mortgages I will take out on my soul.

She says she has to leave, but is reluctant to do so.

I throw caution aside. "I need to thank you for the most wonderful conversation of my life. Have dinner with me tomorrow. Friday."

This woman, so beautiful and exotic she could be gracing the cover of Vogue, looks like a little girl receiving a live unicorn as a gift on Christmas morning. "Oh, that would be nice," she says.

We arrange a time. She turns to leave, then impulsively spins and kisses me on the cheek. Laughing and shaking her head in disbelief at her girlish actions, she heads to the door, looking back at almost every step. As she stands in the doorway, I use the line that has been trying to burst out of me since she told me her name. "After dinner..."

"Yes?"

"After dinner, Nastasha, we must keel Moose and Squirrel."

She palms her face, but I see her smile. "Call me Tasha. See you tomorrow."

The door shuts.

I glance around me. The other people in the coffee shop haven't existed for the last two hours. They suddenly appear, and I see a dozen of them, all watching me, most with bemused smiles. The barista's eyes are shining. She just saw a couple fall in love over drinks she served and takes pride in her role. Two guys are glaring with naked envy. Suck it, bitches. I raise my hands over my head and proclaim, "I am a Golden God!" The barista claps, and a couple patrons join in. I bow.

Living the moment again is like a drug, getting me re-addicted to Tasha.

I decide I need detox, and jump.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

December 19, 2008

It's two-and-a-half years further in the future, and I am watching my Memento DVD when Dave calls. He is in town, and he wants to meet for drinks during a layover. He has important news, he says. Last year, Dave took a job with a gaming company in California, and is one of the lead designers on a new MMO. He has been dating one of his coworkers, he says. He wants me to meet her, and I suspect he wants to announce his engagement. I suggest an Indian restaurant near the airport.




Might Have Been Ch. 07



I hang up the phone, and feel Tasha's stare knifing my back. "What?" I ask.

"That was Dave?"

"Yes, he's in town and we're getting together."

"He invited me?"

Fuck. He hadn't, knowing if he had that Tasha would wreck the night. Tasha overheard the conversation. I can't lie and tell her she was invited. "You and Dave don't get along."

"He's supposedly your best friend, and he doesn't invite me?"

"You don't want to come."

"How do you know?"

"You kicked him out of the apartment." And I let you, I think to myself in shame. Tasha had known about Dave's love of giving people sobriquets like "The Exquisite Sarah" or "That Motherfucker Wallensky". Tasha asked what he would call her, and after staying with us for a week, Dave had replied, "Psycho Girlfriend From Hell."

It hadn't gone over well.

Tasha considers. "Maybe he wants to apologize."

Fat chance of that. "Tasha, I need to see him."

"Why doesn't your best friend want to spend time with your girlfriend?"

"We aren't having this conversation."

Smug cattiness isn't working for her, so she switches tactics abruptly -- or her emotions switch them for her. She cringes into herself, wringing her hands. "He hates me. He's going to tell you to leave me."

"No he isn't," I lie.

"Yes, he is, and you won't come back. You always take his side." The tears are starting. She starts putting away silverware, trying to keep busy with her hands. This is the trap she sets. She wants me to choose. Am I a monster to my girlfriend, or a traitor to my best friend? Every time I choose her, she gains confidence in my love for her, and I die a little inside.

I try to avoid the trap. "I'm going."

"He hates me because he thinks I'm bad for you. He's right. I'm a bad person."

"You aren't a bad person."

She is sobbing now, holding a fork. "Yes, I am."

I realize the significance of the fork, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. She is in what she calls a Black Mood, and I have boxed her in. She is desperate and holding a sharp object. I try to reassure her, and step closer, to prevent what I know will happen.

She moves too quick. The fork stabs down into the flesh of her palm below the thumb. She lets go. Her instrument of self-mutilation stands there, quivering for a second, and then falls to the floor, followed by a rain of blood.

Tasha releases a scream that shatters my soul.

I am not going to see Dave tonight. I am instead taking my crazy girlfriend to the ER, where I will end up paying a thousand dollars because she doesn't have insurance, money, or a credit rating. The hospital staff will glare at me, suspecting I did it.

When I call Dave to explain I can't make it, I try to cover for Tasha, but he sees through it. "What did she do this time? Pills?"

I don't answer.

"Fuck, man. For the sake of all that is holy, you need to leave her."

"It will kill her."

"Justified self-defense. She is killing you."

He doesn't understand. I say nothing.

"Lance, I don't think it's a good idea for me to call you anymore. It just gets you in trouble or gets her hurt. If you decide to leave her, call me, and I swear to God I'm on the next flight out to help you pack."

I pretend the doctor needs to talk to me, and I say goodbye.

Tasha wins again.

My best friend hasn't talked to me since. I did receive an invitation to the wedding, but it was an invitation for one, which sent Tasha into a rage. I didn't attend.

I jump the fuck out, hating her -- hating myself.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

March 3, 2006

It's the Friday night of our first date. We are eating at a French cafe. She wears a tight royal blue blouse with a short black skirt, nylons, and heels.

She is giving me her biography. "My mom is from Afghanistan. She was studying in Europe when the Russians invaded in 1979. My dad is half-French, half-Vietnamese. They met in college."

"Where are they now?"

"He's an economist for the World Bank in DC. My mom works for a human rights group that is trying to get rid of land mines."

I suspect this subject has a tragic history involving dead relatives that would be a poor first-date conversation, so I change the topic. "Granted, I get my knowledge from Jay Ward cartoons, but isn't Natasha a Russian name? How did they select that?"

"My mother taught herself English by comparing French and English versions of War and Peace. Natasha is the main female character in the book, and mom loved her. She thought it was a western name. Dad went along because he liked Rocky and Bullwinkle."

I laugh. "I think I might like your father. What else can you tell me?" Our dinner had finished.

"What do you mean?"

"I want to get to know you. I want to know what created this wonderful person sitting across from me, whose only flaws are loves of Henry Miller and trashy romantic comedies."

Her smile drops with her gaze. "I have more flaws than that."

"Impossible. You're perfect."

"My last boyfriend didn't think so. He dumped me the day after Valentine's Day." That was shortly before I first saw her, which explains why she was sad, and why I had been lucky enough to catch her in the brief window in which a beautiful woman remains single.

Ex-boyfriends are another crappy topic for a first date. "Nah, you're just too smart. Most guys can't take that." My challenge is implicit.

"How about you?"

"I give as good as I get."

Tasha smirks. "Sounds like we might have a fun night then." She blushes and her mouth opens in shock. "Oh my God, I can't believe I said that!"

I keep a stone face for two seconds, and then announce, "Check please!"

She cracks up laughing, still blushing.

Tasha owns a four-year-old Lexus and drives us to her place. She lives alone in a well-furnished apartment in a nice building. The car and the apartment all smell of family money. I take note of Tasha's jewelry, and suspect those aren't cubic zirconia dangling from her ears.

She takes me by the hand and shows me her apartment. Despite the furnishings, it has the temporary and personalized appearance of a college dorm room. Small art prints are scattered on the walls. Escher. Van Gogh. Duchamp. Warhol's Elvis. She has a desk with some psychology textbooks.

I stop in front of a collage containing photos of Halong Bay, Chartres Cathedral, and the Buddhas of Bamiyan.

"Vietnam, France, and Afghanistan," I say, pointing to each picture in turn. "A reminder of where your parents came from?"

She nods, beaming with pleasure that I recognized the pictures. She squeezes my hand.

I take a cursory scan of her bookshelves, and stop. I notice they are mostly paperbacks, some stacked three deep. They cover the bottom three feet of her walls all around the living room. She has a larger bookcase featured more prominently, stacked with hardcovers and trades.

She sees me survey her collection, and she awaits my reaction. Her books are important to her, and she wants my approval.

Bookshelves tell more about who a person is than the photos on their wall. Books show the person's past, present and future -- a paper record of everything that once interested them and everything they are trying to be. The sheer breadth and quality of the titles catches my eye, as does the utter lack of organization. Boccaccio's Decameron is sandwiched between a Vietnam war history and Christopher Moore's Bloodsucking Fiends: A Love Story. I think I see the complete set of Shakespeare plays, but none of them are next to each other -- her copy of Hamlet broods sullenly in the company of a textbook on comparative linguistics.

It reminds me of my own bookshelves, except she has so many more titles. It's like someone purchased a Borders and threw out every bad book. "My God, why would you ever leave the apartment?" I ask in envious wonder.

She can't control herself. She hugs me, pressing her face against my neck. I am impressed with her books, and by extension, she sees me as approving of her.

The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats is visible over her shoulder. She breaks contact to follow my gaze. I pull the book out, and it opens to the poem I am looking for.

I was breaking character. This wasn't something I had done the first time, but I was trusting an instinct.

"You like Yeats?" she asks.

"A friend of mine was a fan, but I haven't read much beyond Second Coming, in a survey course a couple years ago."

"Turning and Turning in the widening gyre..." She spins playfully.

"What do you know of Among School Children?"

"I wrote a paper on it last year."

I recite the closing couplet. "O body swayed to music, O brightening glance / How can we know the dancer from the dance?"

She smiles. "What do you think that means?"

"Isn't it about the performing arts? The difficulty of telling the difference between the respective intents of the composer and performer?"

"A lot of people take it that way when they see it out of context. It's got eight stanzas preceding that, which most people don't know."

"What's it really about?"

She laughs. "What do I know? I got a D."

"You?"

Tasha's expression turns professorial. "She really disliked my interpretation. I must have got it wrong too. The professor agreed with me that the poem was about destiny. There is all this imagery of something growing into something else -- the girl becomes a woman, the shoot becomes the tree, the egg hatches the swan -- but she said God was the dance. People are the dancers unable to see the choreography."

"You disagreed?"

Tasha shrugs.

"What did you think it meant?" I genuinely want to know. Tasha has a knack for seeing unconventional interpretations that make sense.

"Why do you care what I wrote in a D paper?"

I think about how to answer that. "I already trust you about such things more than I would most professors."

She likes that, and blushes. "I didn't think the final question of the poem was about God, but identity, extending the earlier metaphors. The girl becomes the woman, the egg becomes the swan, and the dancer becomes the dance. You can't know the dancer from the dance. If you could, she fails as a dancer. The professor called it sophistry, and gave me a D for thinking I could answer a rhetorical question."

"Thank you," I say, and mean it. I shift the elation I feel toward Tasha, and take her in my arms.

She presses herself close against me, and I am back in deja vu, picking up where my memories left off, with the feel of Tasha's breasts and thighs against me. The light tickle of her breath against my neck, and the unbelievable beauty and intelligence of the woman in my arms, result in an immediate physical response. This is a first date, where I take things slow. I try to arch my pelvis away from her, to prevent her from noticing my aroused state, but she drops her hand to my lower back, and pulls my hips closer to hers, pressing me against her abdomen. Her lips are warm and wet on my neck.

I put my hand on her chin, and tilt her face to meet mine. Her eyes are closed, but her lips are open and waiting. My arm slides around her, and we kiss softly. I feel her hand on the back of my head, twirling fingers through my hair. My tongue tastes hers, and delights in the flavor. Her lips are soft and yielding, while her mouth and tongue press forward. I caress her face, feeling the smooth texture of her skin.

She emits a low moan of caution, not passion, and pulls back. "I think you're going to be trouble," she says.

"No, I swear, I'm easy."

She catches the double meaning and laughs, but there is an edge to it. "That's what I mean." She continues to run her fingers through my hair and searches deep into my eyes. "You're witty, handsome, kind, and I think you might be almost as smart as me." She grins at that.

"Why is that trouble?"

"If we continue down this path, I don't think I'll want to let you go."

"Why would you want to?"

"You will want to." She saddens.

"Why would I do something as foolish as that? You're amazing."

She hangs her head. "Everyone leaves."

"I'm not popping the question on a first date. The earliest I have ever proposed is on a third date, and she was a contortionist."

She doesn't laugh, and contemplates my face, brushing a stray hair aside. "I guess it's up to me to make you want to stay."

It was a confusing conversation the first time, but now it gives me a sick feeling. I press on, reciting my lines from memory, as if from a script. "I like the sound of that."

She pulls me next to her on the couch.

I lean over and kiss her. My hand finds her leg, and meanders up her lower thigh.

"I need to warn you," she says. "I don't put out on the first date."

"Neither do I."

She laughs, and suddenly acts surprised.

"Oh my God! When did you undo my bra?" She is impressed rather than angry.

"I can't give away all my secrets on a first date."

"That was deftly done. Just a second." She does some arm movements under her shirt and seconds later the bra slides out of her sleeve, and she throws it on the floor. It's the first time I have seen what she calls her Flashdance trick.

"How the hell did you do that?"

"If I gave away all my secrets, what would keep you coming back?"

"A bright girl like you? You will think of something."

I kiss her neck, nuzzling down the neckline of her blouse. I undo a blouse button so I can kiss the tops of her breasts. They are warm and firm against my lips.

She holds my face in her hands, pulling me close. Her knees spread in response to my roving hand on her thigh. It has moved under her skirt and has encountered skin rather than nylon -- garters. I smile while continuing to kiss her.

She can tell I am happy with my discovery. "You like those?" She pushes her breasts forward, which is an invitation to undo the rest of her blouse, which I accept. She pillows it behind her head, and she pulls my face down to her breasts.

I take the nipple in my mouth, and she speaks. "Oh, I love how you do that. Your mouth is so hot and you use your hands so well. Show me what else you can do with them."

My teeth gently scrape the hardness of her nipple. I move my hand further up the cleft of her thighs and she parts her legs further. I make first contact, stroking her through her satin panties. I feel her clit already out of its hood, and the fabric is soaked. She is ready to play.

"Do it," she urges in a husky whisper. "Finger me. I want to feel you touch me."

I undo the garter clasps, which allows me to slide her panties down and off of her legs.

She spreads her legs further, and my fingers find her waiting entrance.

"Make me come," she says, "and I'll do the same for you, but that's as far as we go tonight."

Sounds like a deal to me.

She gasps in pleasure as my index finger enters her. My thumb plays with her clit.

"Kiss my breasts again. You're so good to me."

I obey, suckling her nipples, while inserting another finger inside her.

She is already on the verge of orgasm, with her hips undulating in rhythm to the hand that fucks her. "Oh God, I'm so wet for you. I'm so fucking hot right now. I'm going to..." She cries out in lust.

My God, she came fast.

But it seems to only whet her appetite. Her hands are running over my crotch, pawing at me. "Take me to my bedroom," she demands.

I am confused by the mixed messages, but I carry her to the bedroom. Her slight frame feels almost weightless in my arms. I set her down, watching her face for clues. Her eyes are flame as her hands undo my pants. She shoves them down to my knees, along with my boxers. My cock is exposed to her for the first time, and she stares at it with rapt hunger.

"I want it in me," she demands. "Now."

I kick my pants off. "I thought you don't put out on the first date."

"I guess I do on this one."

It's not my last encounter with her mercurial nature.

She spins me until my back is toward the bed, and pushes me onto her comforter. She undoes her skirt, and is immediately on top of me, naked except for her nylon stockings. She is straddling my hips, aggressively attacking my mouth with kisses. Her hands pull up my shirt, and she runs her fingers down my abdomen, until she grasps me firmly within the confines of her fingers.

"It's iron and it's mine," she says, and plunges my cock inside her, where it is enveloped by a fecund heat. She sits up, inserting me to the hilt. Her eyes blaze into mine, and her mouth is open wide in a beatific smile -- focused entirely on the sensations of her body, feeling every penetrating stroke and exulting in the sensations.

I appreciate my first full view of her naked form. She is slender and firm -- her teacup breasts are perfect, and her olive complexion simulates a flawless tan. Tasha's blue eyes are discordant against her Mediterranean/Asian features, but they make her enticingly exotic. Her beauty is unattainable, beyond the reach of mortals like me. It is impossible for someone this beautiful to be in my arms, but I am having her. I will never stop having her, I promise myself.

She is biting her lip as her hips dance, pushing me deep, pulling me out to the tip, and then sucking me inside her once more. "You have no idea how good this feels," she says. "I love the way you fuck me. Make me come. Fuck me harder!"

Her words turn her mouth into her most potent sex organ. The shift between her previous pristine elegance and her naked vulgarity is an erotic masterstroke. She has barely met me and it's as if she knows my buttons by instinct. Her body tells the truth behind her words, that she needs me as much as I need her.

My hands explore the new territory opened up before me -- touching, tickling, feathering, fluttering, squeezing, stroking, probing. Her body is soft, yielding to me, revealing a lack of strong muscles behind her slim form. She is a reader, not a runner, but she makes up in sensuality what she lacks in sinew.

Tasha relishes my touch, gasps and splays out her knees further. She increases the tempo of her hips, and she is now panting as she speaks. "Your cock fits me perfect, as if made for me. It is your sword, and I am your sheath."

I feel pressure build. My climax is imminent, and I want her to join me. I reach between her legs and touch her clit. It sends her immediately and her hips stutter. Each stroke is fast, but she holds the position to drink the maximum pleasure from it, before switching direction. Her sighs become groans -- her groans cries. Finally, she shatters and screams. It's a loud, piercing shout that moves through several vowel tones and is uttered at the top of her lungs.

The thrill of making this goddess come brings my own climax.

Tasha throws herself on top of me, kissing my face with desire while her thirsty loins drink every drop of my seed.

When I shudder in closure, she turns her head, pressing her cheek against mine.

"Oh, you're definitely going to be trouble," she says.

I hold her. I am in shock at the depth of her lust. I have never met anyone who threw herself into sex as deeply as this.

There is a sudden knock at her door. We hear a voice. "Tasha? Tasha? Open up!"

She frowns in concern and gets out of bed, grabbing a robe.

I pull on my pants and follow. I stand out of sight in the kitchen as she opens the door. I hear the conversation.

"Tasha, are you okay?" It's a woman's voice.

"Diane. Um, yeah. Why?"

"I heard screaming coming from your room. I thought you were hurt."

"Oh! Um... no, I'm fine."

Realization dawns on her would-be rescuer, as she notes the robe, the disheveled hair, and the flush on Tasha's face and neck. "Oh! You were...wow. He must be something. I'm sorry. I'll go. Have a good night... or more of a great night!"

Tasha closes the door. Her eyes are wide open, and her teeth are bared in an embarrassed grimace, but her face is still flush with post-coital bliss.




Might Have Been Ch. 07



I am laughing as she comes into my arms. My hand enters the pocket of my cargo pants, and I grasp the resonance array.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," I say.

She pulls me closer. "And I, you," she replies.

I flip the switch and jump.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

September 13, 2007

"I hate you!" It's a year and a half later, and a coffee cup hits the wall next to me. It dents the sheet-rock and falls to the floor with a broken handle.

I shout back. "Fuck this. It's my parents' twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I'm going."

"I'll be alone!"

"If you had gotten off of work like I asked, you would be welcome to come."

"It's my fault now? You're such a coward!" She grabs a handful of magnets off the fridge and throws them at me. I brush them aside, relieved she isn't throwing another coffee cup.

"I told you about this three months ago."

"I can't get off work."

"You didn't try very hard."

"I'll be fired."

"Bullshit." She swaps shifts at her convenience all the time. She engineered this, forcing me to choose between her, and my parents' anniversary. Still, calling her on this is an escalation.

"You're calling me a liar?"

This won't end well. If I stay, it will continue to escalate until she hurts herself. "I'm not doing this. I'm going." I leave, slamming the door behind me. I don't bother to pack. I will pick up clothes and sundries along the way to Minnesota.

I hear her screech through the door behind me. "Coward!"

Guilty as charged. I don't hear from her all weekend. When I return, my DVD collection will be destroyed, but she will be all apologies and kisses. It will be one of the last times we have sex, and the very last time it is any good.

I have spent the last eighteen months learning how to reduce the frequency of her Black Moods. It's done by giving her what she wants -- proving I love her more than anything else -- giving up almost everything else I love. My parents' anniversary is a rare moment of resistance in a life of surrender. The sacrifices are painful, but I make them willingly, not seeing the deeper sacrifice until it is too late. She only gets sexually aroused when she feels the sharp teeth of desperation nipping at her heels. That's when she craves companionship and proof she is alive. The better I am at keeping her calm, the less she wants to have sex. I refuse to deliberately provoke her Moods in order to get laid, so my existence is frustratingly monkish.

In the long run, I can't win.

I jump.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

March 25, 2006

I have my first experience with one of Tasha's "Black Moods". We have been dating three weeks.

She watches a political debate on CNN, and goes off on a rage against the evils of the Bush Administration. It's a minor debate, nothing compared to some of the issues in the past six years, but it sends her into a deep funk. What kind of world do we live in? How can God be so uncaring? She lies in bed all day, brooding and crying, instead of eating and living.

I am the supportive boyfriend. She had warned me about her Moods, and I was mentally prepared. It isn't so bad. I hold her, skipping classes so I can stay with her.

That seems to break the Black. "I need love, Lance."

"You know you have it."

"No, I mean, I need to see love, and then we need to make love."

"What do you mean?"

She is blushing. "Find a porn movie on the Internet. I want to watch that kind of movie with you."

"There's porn on the Internet? Does anyone else know?"

She smiles and her hand brushes my cheek.

"I'll try anything for you," I say with mock reluctance. "What do you want?"

"Something with a woman giving a guy head."

It takes me three minutes to find what she wanted. She is immediately undoing my pants and stroking my cock. When some blonde with impossible tits starts sucking the male lead, Tasha's mouth hits me. She does her damnedest to match every move on the screen. She is able to follow every lick, suck, stroke, and flick of the tongue, only failing when the blonde pulls off an impressive deep throat on nine inches of professional porn star. Tasha gamely tries to mimic the act on my less freakish length, but she gags, and gives up on the fifth attempt, after she accidentally bites me.

The blonde returns to oral techniques that are more in Tasha's repertoire, and Tasha has fun. She pinches the base of my cock when she senses I am about to come, trying and succeeding to keep me lasting as long as the man on screen.

The woman on screen fellates furiously, setting up the money shot. Tasha acts as her surrogate. When I come, she aims my cock at her mouth, but keeps enough distance to guarantee it will be a facial, matching the action on screen.

I explode. A few streams go into her mouth, the rest cover her beautiful face and hair.

She holds my gaze as she cleans her face with her fingers, licking her hands like a cat. When finished, she smiles and escapes to the bathroom.

Her request to watch pornography nags at me. "Despite your love of Henry Miller, I wouldn't expect you to be a fan of hardcore porn," I say when she returns from the bathroom and cuddles in my arms.

"Henry Miller is not porn!" It's become a running joke, and she isn't as mad as she pretends.

"I would have taken you for more of an Anais Nin fan."

She waves toward one of her bookshelves. "I have Delta of Venus over there somewhere. Have you read it?"

"Some. I think straight porn is more honest, Henry Miller excepted."

"There is nothing honest about porn." Her kisses are hot and wet on my neck.

"I mean it isn't pretending to be something it's not. Sex is too powerful. It overwhelms everything else. Delta of Venus is porn aspiring to be art, but it fails. Her mysterious sponsor kept begging her to leave out the poetry. 'Concentrate on the sex', he kept telling her. He knew what it really was."

"Lance, I didn't know you were such a prude. I'm going to enjoy corrupting you." There is laughter in her voice as her hand touches my cock, and she strokes me back to hardness.

"It's prudery to prefer porn to porn-lite?"

"Fine, you aren't a prude. You're a sex-segregationist -- trying to confine sex to porn, but you can't keep sex down. It always rises." The work of her hands turns her words into a pun.

"I just think that when writers focus on sex, it distracts from the art, or the story."

"Sex can be integral to the art or the story. Most stories are about being human. Don't you think sex is an important part of the human experience?"

"Too important."

Tasha grins. "Let's prove it." She swings astride my hips and impales herself on me -- rewarding me for banishing her Black Mood.

When we finish, I jump.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

June 20, 2007

A year in the future, I am emptying the leavings from my electric razor, when I notice little blue caplets dumped in the bathroom trash. "Tasha, did you throw away your Zoloft?"

She doesn't answer.

I track her down. She is sitting on the couch working on a Sudoku puzzle.

"Tasha, why did you throw away your Zoloft?"

"I didn't like the way it made me feel."

"What was wrong?"

"I felt sick. I didn't feel like me."

"The doctor said it takes awhile for it to fully kick in. You need to control your Moods."

"I don't like it."

"We can try something else -- Prozac, or there are new drugs."

"Fuck it. I'll deal with my Moods my own way."

"Tasha..."

"Fuck off."

It was our first and last attempt at better living through chemistry.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

May 13, 2006

It's almost three months into our relationship, and I am learning fast, but I can't make all of her Black Moods go away. This one has lasted three days. The pressure grew too much on the second day, and I snapped at her. She stormed away, and I stayed by myself to calm down, until I heard her cry in pain. Sprinting to the bathroom -- the source of her cries -- I found her using her bathtub razor to slash at her wrists. She hadn't cut deep yet, and I was able to contain the damage with gauze and medical tape. 

I ditch classes because she says she might kill herself if left alone. She cries, wails, sulks, and sleeps. On the third day she complains about not having any good clothes for the spring.

"We can buy some."

"I can't afford it."

What? Her dad is loaded, and pays for every dime of school, plus $2000 a month in living expenses, which easily covers her swanky apartment. He even gave her his Lexus when he upgraded to a Mercedes. Knowing this, I say nothing. I have already learned I can't argue with Tasha when she is in a Mood, or it makes things worse. I am exhausted from dealing with her for three days, and just want her better. A shopping trip sounds like it might be the cure. "It's on me."

"Lance, I couldn't." Already, I know her well enough to tell it's a token protest.

"I would like to buy something nice for you. Let's go."

She chooses a downtown boutique, and is skeptically appraising a blue sundress that is far skimpier than her usual tastes, when I hear a sharp intake of her breath. "Oh God," she says.

"What?"

"It's him. Sean -- the asshole who dumped me after Valentine's Day."

A scruffy, teddy bear of a man is standing in front of the store, patiently attending the plain-looking woman next to him as she admires a dress on one of the mannequins in the store window. He doesn't see Tasha.

She had settled for that? He had dumped her?

The man's companion opened the door to the store.

"I can't deal with him right now," Tasha says, grabbing the sundress in size two, and walking briskly toward the changing room. I follow and wait outside her door.

I watch her ex and his new girlfriend enter the store. They are having a conversation. I can't hear the details, and don't want to, but the woman's nasal voice is like a chorus of castrati mice trying to ice skate on a chalkboard.

A minute later, Tasha purrs from behind the door, "Lance, come here and help me."

She is wearing the dress, I discover to my delight after closing the door behind me, and it brings out a fierce heat in her eyes. The skirt is far shorter than I have ever seen her wear. It flares out from her hips, but barely extends past her panties. The dress is sleeveless, exposing the smooth olive skin of her arms, and the neckline plunges almost to her navel. If she had a bigger bust, it would look obscene, but on her petite frame it's just daring and sexy. She turns to display the back. It is mostly free of fabric, except at the very top and bottom. She can't be wearing a bra.

Tasha watches my reaction in the mirror. "What do you think?"

"You look gorgeous, of course, but it's more risque than you usually wear. I like it, but do you?"

"It makes me feel sexy."

"You are sexy. Um... isn't that skirt going to fly up every time you turn around? You will be flashing your panties with every stiff breeze."

Her reflection has a wanton smile. "No I won't. I took them off. Take a look." She raises her hands and presses them against the wall, and spreads her legs -- posing as if expecting a frisk by the police.

I step behind her, and probe under the skirt, feeling the bare flesh of her ass. She presses back into my hand.

"What do you think? Will you buy it for me?" She presses back further into my crotch, and rubs herself against the new hardness she finds there.

"How much is it?"

"$400."

Fuck!

There is panic in Tasha's eyes -- she saw me flinch at the price. I am being tested, I know. The last three days have been a nightmare. She needs re-assurance from me, and I need her Mood to end. "If it will make you happy, Tasha, of course I'll buy it. It's magnificent on you."

She leans back to whisper huskily in my ear. "Take me, right here, from behind."

I can hear other shoppers in the neighboring stalls, but that only enhances the thrill. I unzip my pants, flip the back of her skirt, and slide inside her.

Tasha's hand pushes back from the wall to leverage me in deep, while her other hand reaches behind to pull my head forward to kiss her ravenous lips.

Matching her hunger, I reach inside her dress to cup both of her breasts, trapping each nipple between fingers, allowing me to pinch and caress them at the same time.

Her lips open wide and I feel her teeth scrape my chin as she moans and thrusts back against me. I hear the low whisper again. "Oh, my sweet man. I'm so hot right now. Just fuck me. Fuck me like you own me."

She bends over further. She can no longer whisper in my ear, but I have a better angle, and I see her face in the mirror, rapt with lust. She mouths her words to my eyes: fuck me, fuck me.

Embracing her hips, I pull her forward, pressing my thumbs into the soft flesh of her ass. I increase the tempo, skewering her from behind.

She starts to tremble and opens her mouth in a wide "O", and closes her eyes. I have never met a girl who comes so often, and so hard. Her face in climax is the most beautiful thing in the world, and I follow her into incandescence.

She emits one sharp cry of pleasure.

We hear a voice. "Hey, are you okay?" I recognize the nasal tone.

Tasha is quick on her feet. "I'm fine, I just caught my tit in a zipper."

"Ouch, I've done that." The woman leaves.

Tasha gives me a long, lingering kiss. She then changes, and heads to the counter to purchase the dress. Tasha ignores her ex-boyfriend as he waits for his own companion outside the dressing room, but I notice him start with recognition when he sees her. We make eye contact, and he gives me a sad smile. When this first happened, I saw his look as one of regret for the amazing woman he let escape -- but now I knew it to be pity.

I buy her the dress. She never wears it again. I once asked her why, and she said it was too short, and she was self-conscious wearing it in public. I asked why she didn't return it if she wasn't going to wear it.

"It was a gift from you," Tasha says. "That makes it special."

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

January 7, 2007

Two for the Road is showing on Turner Classic Movies. It was one of the few post-war romantic movies I liked, with a clever story structure, cross-cutting between scenes of the same couple at different periods in their relationship. I had tried watching it with Tasha once, but she found it depressing. I thought it was one of the best love stories ever put on film.

Tasha walks into our apartment, in tears. We have been dating almost a year. She has just been fired from her job at Macy's. The sick days and her volatility have hurt her. They kept her on for the Holiday season, then let her go. Her cries are interminable. I hold her all night long on the floor of our new apartment, and call in sick the next day.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

June 10, 2006

"You're leaving me." We are finishing dinner at her kitchen table, four months into our relationship.

"No, I'm not. I would love for you to come with me." I have been accepted into the Physics program at Columbia, Michigan, and Stanford. I decided on Columbia. Stanford is a better school, but not by much -- plus I have more contacts at Columbia, I received a better financial package, and had loved New York City the previous summer.

"I can't move to New York. I just started a new job."

"You can easily get a similar job in New York." She took a job as a manager-in-training at Macy's. It's just above minimum wage. She barely graduated -- her health problems resulted in too many missed classes, ditched exams, and incomplete work. She has struck out on getting jobs in her field -- clinical psychology.

"I made a commitment to them. I can't just break it at the end of the summer."

"It's a retail job, Tasha."

"I didn't know you were a snob."

"I'm not, but retail jobs are a dime a dozen. You can get another one just like it anywhere in the country, probably at the same chain."

"My friends are here." The only friend I have seen is Diane, the neighbor who has only been over twice.

"You can make new friends."

"Lance, you know how I am. I need stability in my life to keep the Moods at bay. The more things change around me, the worse it gets." This is true, but it isn't the real reason. By now, I have figured out the pattern, where I am boxed into choosing between Tasha and something else I want. If I choose her, it re-assures her, convincing her I won't leave. That calms her anxieties and makes her Moods less frequent. She wants one more sacrifice, but this is too big. I can't give up grad school. It's my life.

"Tasha, you know my dreams."

"You told me it was to be with me."

"I would love that. Move to New York with me."

"I need you."

"I need you, too."

"You're the best thing to ever happen to me," she says.

"As you are to me."

"No, I'm not. I know how difficult I can be. But you're so good to me."

"I try."

"Let me show you how good you are to me. Let me be good to you." Her eyes smolder as she slips under the kitchen table. I shortly feel her hands on my crotch, and I push the chair back to give her access.

She pulls my pants down, and takes me in her mouth. When I come, she swallows every drop. A voice travels up from under the tablecloth. "Thanks for dessert."

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

November 17, 2006

It's five months later, and it's the worst Black Mood I ever experienced.

Her father has decided she isn't showing enough ambition, and she needs some tough love to get her life back on track -- he has cut her off. She can no longer afford the apartment, and won't be able to maintain her expensive habits of clothes and jewelry. I don't care about the money directly, but I fear she will expect me to maintain her lifestyle. My job doesn't pay nearly enough.

The Mood lasts a week. I call in sick for two of them, but I haven't worked at the lab long enough to have much leave. The other three days, I hide all the pills and knives, and leave her alone in the dark, because she shrieks when I turn on the light. I don't believe in God, but I pray anyway.

When it's finally over, I walk out the front door, hike a few blocks, and sit on a bench in a park.

I break character. At this moment I am myself, not the me of five years ago.

Taking a deep breath, I pull out the resonance array.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

I have been surfing quantum foam, bouncing back and forth in time, using the array to see Tasha at her best and worst. I had another reason as well -- I had been a coward for six years, avoiding conflict. No longer.

Shying away from the beauty of Tasha would have been a sin against my conscience. I had loved her justly, and she did not deserve to be demonized. Shying away from the horror of Tasha would have been a sin against my soul, allowing me to rationalize a continued miserable existence with her.

I had just spent several weeks of subjective time with her, and hadn't changed a single important decision. It was merely preparation for my ultimate fantasy. I had re-lived my choices with six Might-Have-Beens: Amy, Courtney, Amber, Sidney, Irina, and Crystal. None had gone the way I expected -- I hadn't found an alternate universe where I was with a better woman, or discovered any secrets that would allow me to bring back the Tasha from the first few months of our relationship. Instead, I had remembered who I had once been, and realized what I had become.

There was one more decision I wanted to explore. It would only be in this universe, and I would leave for home after. But I wanted this. I wanted one last sex fantasy.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

It had been in August of 2006. I had packed for New York and had loaded my 1998 Civic. I was ready to leave. I only had one task remaining: convincing Tasha to come with me -- or failing that, to say goodbye.

I was praying she would come with me. Our conversations had never grown less interesting than our first one had been. We laughed our way through an all-night Charlie Chaplin film festival, and tolerated the smoke to hear blues acts at Buddy Guy's. We traded book recommendations, and then debated the merits of the other's choice. Tasha read from Delta of Venus while I sipped thimblefuls of champagne from the indent of her navel. She had been right that the book was much better with a naked woman lying beneath me.




Might Have Been Ch. 08: Conclusion



I'm on a roll, I'm on a rollThis time, I feel my luck could changeKill me Sarah, kill me again with loveIt's gonna be a glorious day

-- Radiohead, Lucky

New York - August 25, 2012

Central Park moved past at a five mile per hour pace. I played my game of Pekingese Slalom, dodging dogs, their leashes, and owners. My feet padded through the park, with Green Day's Basket Case as my personal soundtrack.

I enjoyed running. I dropped twenty pounds in the past ten months, and am back in fighting trim. New York is a better place to run than Chicago. Central Park is an island of green surrounded by a sea of skyscrapers. I don't forget where I am, and that this is where I want to be.

The sights and sounds of New York lack the emotional baggage of Chicago. The city Sandburg called the "hog butcher for the world" can take its big shoulders and go fuck itself. Here, I am not constantly reminded of the things I would prefer to forget, but can instead remember only what I choose.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Batavia, Illinois - October 19, 2011

The world dissolved into my project room at Fermilab.

The floor was hard against my back. I blinked twice and stood, still clutching the resonance array in my hands -- one of which had a painful electrical burn.

"Lance! Are you alright?"

I looked for the voice and saw Dr. Nguyen at the door, striding toward me with concern on his face. "Yes. I... uh... just found a gap in the safety procedures and shocked myself. I'm fine."

His concern didn't disappear. "Very good. Very good. Was the experiment damaged?"

"I haven't checked, but I can't see why it would be. I was just getting ready to run the final diagnostic of the software."

"Don't let me get in your way." He had spent two years of his life on this experiment, and tomorrow was the day it would start, so I didn't blame him for staying until we were certain nothing was damaged. In fact, given how much of his blood and sweat he poured into this, I was touched he only asked about the experiment once he knew I was alright. Nice guy.

Certain the power was off this time, I placed the array where it belonged in the containment unit. I also made a quick modification to the software to automatically cut power to the array when its hatch was open, to prevent my accident from occurring to anyone else.

Everything checked out. "We're ready for tomorrow."

Professor Nguyen had been concealing his concern, and an expression of vast relief rolled across his face. "Oh, thank God. How about your accident? How do we prevent that from happening to anyone else?"

"I already took care of it."

He nodded, and pulled up a chair. "I already knew about your smarts and work ethic, and you show initiative as well. So what's the deal with you? The rumor around the building is that you had a lot of talent, but lacked the ambition to get your doctorate."

I had heard the same rumors before, but hadn't disputed them. "It wasn't lack of ambition. I had some personal problems, which took some time to resolve. I'm planning to re-apply for some schools for next fall."

"Good. Science will be better for it. If you need a recommendation letter, let me know. Now go home. It's late."

I took his advice and left work.

Sitting in my car in the parking lot, I sent Tasha a text. Worked late. Too tired for the drive. Crashing in a hotel.

Tasha liked living and working downtown, so I had a long reverse-commute out to Batavia every work day. She would be asleep and wouldn't see the text until tomorrow morning. Tomorrow was Thursday. I had to work, but she was on a late shift. If things went as planned I could leave work early, and wouldn't even see Tasha until she returned home around ten at night.

I checked into the nearest Super 8, and slept like a baby.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

New York -- August 25, 2012

I finished my run through Central Park, and returned to my new apartment, only two blocks away from Columbia on the Upper West Side.

A few boxes were still strewn throughout the apartment, left over from yesterday. My books were all neatly on the shelf, and my computer and wireless were hooked up, but most of my clothes and personal items sat in boxes or suitcases. I grimaced at my own skewed priorities as I headed to the shower.

The rest of my gear would have to wait a little longer. I had other plans today.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Chicago -- October 20, 2011

My stuff was already packed and in the car, and I waited for Tasha to return. The clocks ticked slowly, allowing ample time to imagine worst-case scenarios, which made for a long evening. This wouldn't be the dress-rehearsal, but the opening night of a one-performance show.

Would she cry and beg? If so, I was certain I could resist her, as I already resisted her a universe away. Would she hurt herself or threaten suicide? If that happened, my plan was to leave immediately and call 9-1-1. Knowing my response, however, didn't diminish the dread shredding my abdomen.

Tasha finally returned just before ten. She immediately noticed the changed appearance of the apartment, but her expression was one of curiosity, not anxiety.

I told her our relationship had run its course. I wasn't happy, and was moving out immediately.

She sighed. "It's probably for the best."

That was the one reaction I hadn't expected. I had stayed with her several years longer than had been good for me, under the belief she needed me. She had said so many times.

When had been the last time? The last serious meltdown had been almost three years ago. I had been strenuously avoiding conflict since then. Was there anything more recent? I drew a blank. Was it a ploy? Was she pretending to not care in order to draw me back? I didn't think so. Tasha was not that kind of manipulator.

We talked for an hour, mostly over material things. I hadn't packed any items that we had purchased together, or any of the gifts I had given her, but she didn't want some of them. We stowed them into two more boxes, for which I said I would return at a later date.

Tasha was relieved when I told her I would pay my half of the rent through the end of our lease in December. She didn't think she would be able to keep the apartment on her own, and she didn't want a roommate. The extra time would allow her to find something cheaper and smaller.

I didn't offer to help her move when the time came.

Tasha's lack of reaction perplexed me. Where was the tantrum? Where was the threat of suicide?

My inner optimist wondered if I had saved her after all. My reliability over the years had provided the stability she needed, and she could now stand on her own.

The cynical part of me believed she let me go without a fight because I had nothing more to give her. I had sacrificed everything. Why would a spider care if a dry husk of a fly happens to fall out of its web?

Neither interpretation was completely satisfying. This had been hard for me because I still loved her. I was leaving because she was killing me, but I still cared deeply about her. Maybe that wasn't the case with her -- maybe Tasha no longer loved me -- maybe she knew all I had sacrificed for her, and hadn't had the heart to end it herself. If so, the intent of staying with me wasn't cruel, even if the effect was. If I had known her reaction would be this mild, I could have ended it years earlier.

If... if...if. Fuck it. I was done with regret and second-guessing.

I held her in my arms one last time, and gave her a kiss on the forehead. I wished her well, and meant it.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

New York -- August 25, 2012

My destination was two miles south. I worked my way there slowly, walking down Columbus. I stopped by Bernstein Brothers and picked up bagels, cream cheese, and two cups of coffee. Saturday mornings in Manhattan were comparatively relaxed, with the hustle-bustle of work life replaced by the slightly relaxed urgency of Manhattanite leisure. I enjoyed my walk.

I expected to feel the tightening screw of anxiety as I approached, but instead I felt anticipation, curiosity, and hope. Having made better time than I planned, I loitered outside for two minutes until the clock on my phone read 8:18 AM. I walked toward the building and reached the front door just as an elderly man left it -- successfully skirting the security system, which had been my goal -- the better to enhance the surprise.

Heading up the stairs, one flight, two, down the hall to apartment 3C, I breathed deep and knocked on the door -- two firm taps.

"I'll be right there," said a woman's voice from inside.

She had kissed me once, several universes away, but in this one I had wronged her, and she was one of the most formidable creatures I had ever met. My heart was in my throat as she opened the door.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

San Francisco -- March 10, 2012

Zoe was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen -- an absolute angel. I held her gently in my arms for another minute, lost in the trust and love I saw in her eyes.

She opened her lips, as if to speak deep philosophical truths to me, but instead spat milk on my shirt.

Dave accepted her back while I cleaned up. "Getting puked on is a badge of honor for an honorary uncle." He threw a burp cloth over his own shoulder and held his daughter against his chest. She was three months old.

"I hope she honors you even more than she just did me." We were already falling back into old patterns.

Dave's wife Colby had ducked out to get dinner. I wasn't sure if the question I wanted to ask was one I should ask in her presence, so I saw this as a good opportunity.

"I've lost touch with a lot of people over the past six years," I said.

"You haven't heard of Facebook?"

"Not everyone is on it, and some of them don't post their situation."

"Who in particular?"

"The Exquisite Sarah."

Dave nodded, unsurprised. "She broke my heart, you know."

"I know."

He held up his daughter, and kissed her on the cheek. "Best thing she ever did."

I looked at the girl in his arms, the smile on his face, and at his nicely furnished house, with its state of the art Alienware gaming rig, home theater, and the various Game of the Year, and Designer of the Year software awards lining his shelves, all of them for a steampunk MMO that had won rave reviews two years ago. I had just met Colby for the first time, and liked her tremendously. She was the type of highly organized, upbeat field marshal that Dave needed to keep him focused, and he was madly in love with her.

"Best thing she ever did," I agreed.

Dave stood, taking on an air of self-importance. "Thou seekest Sarah," he stated, sounding like a quest giver in his newest medieval adventure game.

"It is so."

"Knowest thou where she resideth?"

"The great wizard Google hath told me."

"Havest thou a plan?"

"Hast, numbnuts, hast." 

"Hast thou a Cunning Plan, asswipe?"

"It begin...eth with thee."

Dave nodded. The conspiracy had begun.

"Last, and most significant," he asked with an aura of solemnity I didn't think was part of his act, "art thou worthy?"

I thought about that one. "I'm working on it."

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

New York -- August 25, 2012

Step One: Surprise Sarah at her apartment with breakfast.

"Oh my God, Lance!" Sarah threw her arms around me. She was dressed, but had that fresh-out-of-the-shower look. Her black hair was damp and smelled of residual shampoo.

I hadn't been sure she would recognize me, or what her welcome would be if she did. "Careful, you will squish breakfast." I briefly regretted picking up the coffee and bagels, as they prevented me from returning her hug.

Sarah released me. "You brought me breakfast! It's like you read my mind. I was just going to get a bagel and coffee."

"I was in the neighborhood..."

Sarah rolled her eyes, but it was benign. "Come in, come in!" She motioned me into her apartment, still excited. She performed what she called her "happy dance", where she held her arms in a boxing stance and ran in place, rapidly bouncing from foot to foot. She was wearing red shorts, and a tight black tank top displaying a Banksy silkscreen -- a doctor applying a stethoscope to "I ♥ NY". Sarah had always had a nice figure, but now she had the efficient and sinuous physique of a professional dancer.

Her apartment was a reflection of her. A Matisse Jazz print was prominent over her sofa. There was a black and white photograph of an athletic young man who looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place him until I noticed the photo was next to a movie poster of It's Always Fair Weather. (It looked like an original -- Sarah was doing well.)

"Michael Kidd?" I asked, feeling lucky -- the only two choreographers I knew were him and Bob Fosse.

She nodded, impressed. "You must still watch a lot of movies."

"That's one of my favorites," I said, pointing to the poster. "An eidetic Cyd Charisse dancing in the gym, Gene Kelly on roller skates, the trashcan lid dance, what's not to like?" I set out the bagels and handed her a cup of coffee -- skim milk, no sugar. 

She took a sip, and smiled. "Perfect."

"I just moved in yesterday. I figured if I didn't see you first thing after moving to Manhattan, and you heard about it, you would track me down and kick my ass."

Sarah's generous red lips parted in a half-smile. "You figured right." She then raised her eyebrows. "You moved here?" Was that a sparkle of hope? Or apprehension?

"I live on 110th Street."

I watched her do the geography in her head before she spoke. "A little bird told me you might be coming. And you can sit down, you know."

We both sat at the table. Sarah angled away from me, showing a profile and a slightly cool shoulder.

"I wondered why you weren't too surprised, and Dave isn't a bird."

"He sure sang like a canary."

"What did he say?"

Sarah spread a small amount of cream cheese on a wheat bagel, and spoke in a casual tone. "You were in a horrible six-year relationship, had some sort of epiphany that had something to do with me, and you finally dumped the bitch. You were waiting to hear back from Columbia and Stanford about grad school. Despite not contacting me in ten years after writing a nasty message, you were planning on wooing me." She was carefully watching my reaction. "Same old, same old."

"That fucking bastard," I said without malice. I paused, then asked, "He said 'woo'?"

"Our dear Dave always had one foot in the Nineteenth Century. It's probably good for you he warned me. I was furious when he first told me, but I had some time to think about it."

"That's why I asked him to tell you."

Sarah's eyes widened at the revelation.

"I'm glad you two are talking again," I added.

"Me too." She frowned, still processing the knowledge I was obviously enacting a plan.

I changed subjects. "What have you been up to, Sarah?"

She leaned forward with a beatific smile on her face. "I love my job! I was a good dancer, but I was never going to make a career out of that alone. It turns out I'm awesome at choreography."

"You always have been. What are you working on?"

"There is a musical version of Jaws opening this winter on Broadway. I'm an assistant choreographer. On Monday, I'm supposed to present some ideas for Sheriff Brody's big dance with the shark." She gestured over to a desk, where I saw what looked like sheet music, only marked with boxes containing stick figures and symbols.

"He dances with the shark?"

"It's symbolic and artsy, you know, for the critics." Her eyes raised to the heavens at the ridiculousness of her task. "Or at least it's written that way. Get this! The musical number is called We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat!"

"Of course it is."

"I think I can make it less preposterous than it sounds."

"What, make it ironic?"

"I don't think it's fair to your material to make fun of it, but I think it can work if we play up humor as a defense against fear."

"Via dance?"

"That's what I do." She was getting excited again, and I couldn't help but share her enthusiasm.

"Have they cast the shark yet?" I was joking. It would surely be mechanical, or played by a team of stagehands.

"Nathan Lane," she said.

I love Broadway. "I'll be there opening night."

"Please do!" She had turned to face me now, obviously warming to my presence.

I sipped my coffee for dramatic effect, before confessing, "I missed you, Sarah."

She pursed her lips and arched an eyebrow, saying nothing for a moment. "Lance, you were one of my best friends, and were always talented with words. You used that talent to hurt me worse than I have ever been hurt by someone I viewed as a friend, and then you ignored me for ten years." There wasn't as much malice in her voice as there could have been. It had the feel of rehearsal. "What should I make of you saying now that you missed me?"

"I'm trying to reconnect with the people who I cast aside, and you were at the top of my list."

"After Dave," she corrected sweetly.

"No, you were ahead of Dave."

"You talked to him months ago."

Sarah was on high alert for bullshit, and I wanted her no other way. "Yes, and you seem to know the reason I talked to him." I left unspoken another reason, that I wanted Dave's permission before I made a play for Sarah. Yes, he was married and hadn't dated her for ten years, but guys could be weird about such things.

"Ah, yes," Sarah said, "the wooing thing. When you changed the subject, I assumed it made you uncomfortable."

"No, it just wasn't the right time. Now it is. Does it make you uncomfortable?"

Her smile was wary. "I haven't decided yet."

"Understandable."

She raised an eyebrow. "That girlfriend of yours really did a number on your head. The Lance I knew would have been offended I didn't view him as a gift from God."

"Was I really such an arrogant bastard?"

"More of a son-of-a-bitch than a bastard, but we loved you for it."

"Ha! No, I have my mojo back. I just understand why you would be cautious about a guy recovering from a six-year dysfunctional relationship -- particularly one who hasn't said a word to you since writing a despicably insulting email you in no way deserved."

She blinked rapidly at that and looked away, but not before I noticed her eyes had misted.

"Sarah?"

The mist was gone when she looked back at me again. "What's your Cunning Plan?"

"Plan?" I removed all sincerity from my smile of innocence.

"If you knew I would be cautious, you concocted one of your Cunning Plans."

"I have learned a lot about improvisation."

"As a fallback for when your plans go tits-up."

I laughed. Ten years, and she still knew me. "Yes, I have a Cunning Plan."

She rested her face in her hands, blue eyes wide open, preparing to listen. "Spill."

"The groundwork was having Dave act as my herald, which I thought would initially piss you off, but then intrigue you. Now we're onto the plan itself. Step One was to surprise you at your apartment by bringing you bagels and coffee for breakfast. Step Two is to convince you I have my shit together and am worth the effort. Step Three: seduce you. Step Four: have wild sex with you on that couch, and then again in your bedroom..." I checked the time on my phone. "...All by ten o'clock this morning." I was Babe Ruth in the 1932 World Series, calling my home run shot. I couldn't guarantee it would work, but I was fucking certain she would want to witness the attempt.

Sarah's jaw dropped with a mix of offense and delight. "Maybe I was wrong, and you are still an arrogant son-of-a-bitch."

I took a bite of my bagel. "Maybe. You said a few minutes ago that you used to love me for that. I don't think you were entirely joking."





Might Have Been Ch. 08: Conclusion



Sarah blushed, but her smile dimmed. "Didn't some guy say no plan survives first contact with the enemy?"

"General Moltke, I think. Good thing you and I are old friends."

Sarah wasn't convinced. "You really hurt me, you know. I don't waste time on grudges, but regaining trust is another thing altogether. You have your work cut out for you." Sarah took a sip of coffee, appraising me over the rim with a blue steel glint in her eyes. I had her attention. "I've eaten my bagel. I guess it's time for you to move to Step Two."

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Evanston, Illinois -- April 7, 2012

"Good morning, Mrs. Pugacheva."

"You are... Lance, no? You used to be big shot student who worked with my husband." She was older, with a hint of gray in her hair now. Her eyes were reddened, indicating she hadn't stopped trying to fill the emptiness inside with alcohol. She was still beautiful, even with a morning cocktail in her hand.

"Yes, Mrs. Pugacheva."

"Call me Irina. Please to come in and have drink."

"No, thank you. I can't explain why, but I owe you a favor."

She gave me the once over. "I am having ideas on how you could repay."

"I'm flattered, Irina, but if I accept, you won't believe what I have to say." Uncomfortable truths are always better spoken by someone who behaves with honor.

"Yes?" She frowned. I had piqued her curiosity.

"Let go of the hate. Find a good immigration lawyer and get your divorce, or move back to Ukraine to be with your family. Get your degree again at an American university. You're better than the life you are leading."

Her hands shook slightly as she took a long drink from her martini glass. I saw tears of shame and anger in her eyes as she slammed the door on me.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

New York -- August 25, 2012

Step Two: Convince Sarah I have my shit together and am worth the effort.

Sarah crossed her arms, and a sad expression darkened her face. "Ten years ago, Lance, you would have never needed to convince me you were worth the effort."

"No?" She had steered the conversation away from where I wanted to lead it, but I knew she needed to say this. She was still afraid I was a desperate man on the rebound, and was trying not to hurt me.

"Never. But I'm not looking for a project. People change only slowly, or not at all. I'm not a nurse to put Band-Aids on your romantic wounds, or a guru who will help you find yourself. I live in one of the world's centers of fashion, but I buy my clothes off the rack, because I like to know what I'm getting."

"I left Tasha almost a year ago. I'm not on the rebound. I had some shit to work through, and I did it. That's why I didn't contact you earlier. I wanted to bring my A-game, not baggage."

That earned a brief smile. "Here's a question, Lance. Did you come to New York for me, or for you?"

The question was laced with traps. Telling her it was for me sounded like a lie. Saying it was for her had the stench of desperation. I chose the truth. "I applied to Stanford and Columbia because they were the two programs I wanted most. I did that for me. I was accepted to both. I chose Columbia because I love New York City, I have some academic contacts and friends here who will help me, and because it would give me a chance with you I would never otherwise have."

"You're idealizing me. You just got out of a nasty relationship, and you seem to give me credit for it, even though I haven't seen you in ten years, and we didn't part on the best of terms. You're putting me on a pedestal." Her eyes pleaded with me to prove her wrong.

I shook my head. "I know exactly who you are."

"Oh?"

"You're someone who had the courage ten years ago to sacrifice her own happiness for a man who was willing to pay any price and follow her anywhere to be with her. You had the compassion to do what needed to be done to protect Dave from himself, and the fortitude to stick with your decision, even when vilified by people who should have known better, like Dave himself. And me."

Sarah's eyes were misting again, and she pulled her lower lip into her mouth to conceal a quiver.

"Do you want to know how I got my shit together? By finally realizing what a beautiful thing you did. You're the strongest woman I know."

She swallowed as she looked away, and her hands dropped to her lap. "What time is it?" she asked, with a slight choke to her voice.

"Almost nine o'clock."

Sarah nodded. "I think you're clear for step three."

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Indianapolis -- May 21, 2012

I pulled over and parked a hundred yards away from the gray ranch-style house at 7 AM. I sat in my car, reading the New York Times on my phone while I waited, keeping one eye on the house.

A little before seven thirty, the garage door opened and a Ford Explorer backed out of the driveway, and drove past me, heading toward downtown. I glimpsed the driver -- a thin, weaselly man with a receding hairline. Weaselly Man looked to be the right age.

Once I had driven my car around the corner and parked it again, my nerves tightened. I'm not a criminal, I reassured myself. I walked toward the back of his house, but made a point of acting like I belonged there. I wore a Chicago Cubs cap and had grown a week of beard to make me harder to recognize. Once out of sight, I donned leather gloves, and searched the ground. That landscaping rock should do nicely.

The black paint on the basement windows did not escape my notice.

I pulled out a towel, wrapped it around the rock, and approached the sliding glass door to Weaselly Man's patio. The cushioned rock hit the glass with a muffled crack, punching a hole big enough for my hand to reach inside and unlock the door.

No sign or sound of an alarm system. I wasn't surprised. If I were right, I didn't think Weaselly Man would want authorities responding.

As expected, a quick check of the rooms on the main floor revealed nothing. I swallowed as I opened the basement door, and headed down the stairs, trying to push away thoughts of Silence of the Lambs. The basement was finished, but not in any normal way. The windows were sealed off, covered by a material I didn't immediately recognize. The same material covered the walls and ceiling. Looking back up the stairs, I saw it also covered the basement door. I guessed it was some sort of acoustical panel to mute sound.

A small unenclosed toilet and shower stood in one corner, where the floor was nothing but exposed concrete and a drain. The shower had no curtain.

In the adjacent corner, I noticed a room with concrete blocks for walls, sealed with a steel door.

Oh fuck. I had hoped I was wrong, and I would just be leaving a hundred bucks on Weaselly Man's table to pay for the door damage, but the knot in my stomach, and the evidence in the basement were screaming I wasn't wrong.

An assortment of S&M gear lined the wall, each well-maintained and kept in its own special niche. Weaselly Man showed these instruments lots of care and love.

Anger and bile rose in my throat, and I swallowed both.

The steel door was secured with three deadbolts, plus a drop bolt sending a bar of steel deep into a drilled hole in the concrete. Whatever was inside wasn't coming out through the door, at least without permission.

I pulled all the bolts and opened the door. The air inside had the stagnant smells of mildew and desperation.

A figure stirred on a bed. She was naked, and restrained by a sophisticated system that put silk scarves to shame. She was tied face down and couldn't see me.

Welts marred her back.

I heard a tremulous whisper. "Master?"

Oh, Crystal, I'm so sorry. I masked my voice. "No, it's not. I'm going to get you some help."

"No, it's you. You're testing me again, but there's no need. Your whore has learned its place."

Fuck. One year. Her parents hadn't seen her in one year. She had supposedly dumped her boyfriend and moved to Cincinnati. Her parents had received a few letters and emails for the next six months but then those stopped. They had filed a missing persons report and the police could find nothing. She had vanished in Cincinnati six months ago without a trace.

Her parents told me that story when I tried to track her down. Given what I knew about her boyfriend, I had suspected she had never made it to Cincinnati, and that the communications from her had been forged to deceive.

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't deserve this," I whispered. She flinched when I gently touched her leg in a failed attempt at reassurance.

"Master?" There was doubt in her voice now.

There could be no help for her this way, at least not without having to answer uncomfortable questions about how I found her. I climbed the stairs, and punched three numbers into the telephone with my gloved hands. The line picked up quickly. "Indianapolis 9-1-1. What is your emergency?"

Indianapolis Star -- May 22, 2012

Burglar Discovers Enslaved Woman in Basement

A 9-1-1 call by a burglar lead to the discovery of a woman reported missing in Ohio six months ago. Neighborhood residents were shocked by the revelation Michael Tracy, of Indianapolis, had allegedly imprisoned the woman in his basement. The victim (whose identity is being withheld) has been hospitalized, and her family has been contacted. An Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department spokesman said the alleged crime was reported by an unidentified burglar, who had broken into the house Monday morning, discovering the woman tied to a bed. In an apparent twist of conscience, the burglar called the police, but left before authorities arrived.

Tracy was arrested at his place of work, and is being charged with kidnapping, multiple counts of sexual assault, and false imprisonment. If convicted, he will face life in prison.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

New York -- August 25, 2012

"How are you going to seduce me, Lance?"

"That's up to you. You get to set me three tasks. If I complete them, I win."

"You win?"

"Your heart, or at least a chance at it."

Sarah considered. "Any task?"

"Yes."

"So I could tell you to climb the Empire State Building and swat down airplanes?" Her smile was sufficiently wicked that I knew she was considering it.

"You can indeed set a task you know I'll fail, which will tell me I can't hope to win your heart. At least not today."

Sarah pursed her lips in mock disapproval. "This seems a lazy seduction, Lance. All the creativity is on me."

"Which is why it's brilliant. I set a creative challenge in front of you that will be irresistible, and make you complicit in your own seduction, which you will find kind of hot."

"You haven't seen me for ten years, and you think you know me well enough to make very specific predictions about what I find irresistible, and what makes me hot?"

"Yes."

"You don't think making such presumptuous predictions will make me say otherwise, even if you're right?"

"Honesty is too important to you."

Sarah screwed up her lips as she considered that, but I could see the laughter in her eyes even before she spoke. "Alright, Lance. Game on."

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Mankato, Minnesota -- June 16, 2012

Snazzy Pete was chatting up Red Madison at the bar under the park pavilion. Scott the Hoople had grown his hair long, had developed the perpetually-wide eyes of the paranoid, and had been socially ostracized after trying to convince everyone at the reunion that 9/11 had been an inside job. Sumbeech Carl had turned into three hundred pounds of disgruntled ex-jock who drank whiskey like water. Heather had hugged me when she saw me, and made a point of introducing her husband, who was six inches taller than me, and treated me with the false friendliness of someone who was pretty sure I was going to ravage his wife on the picnic table, and wanted an excuse to stay close so he could kick my ass if I even looked at her crosswise.

This is fun. I should come to reunions more often.

I had spent time with my parents for the first time in years. For six years, they had avoided telling me what they really thought of Tasha, as they had been smart enough to recognize it would probably drive me even further away, but now that Tasha was gone, the knives came out, and for the past twenty-four hours they had been telling me how much they had disliked her. It was therapeutic, but relentless. The reunion was a welcome respite.

I had missed my five-year reunion because of Tasha, but made a point of attending my ten-year to reconnect, and get leads on a few people. I saw one of my targets from across the room, and walked over to say hello.

"Amy! You won't understand what this means, and I won't explain, but I need to say thank you."

"Um, hi Lance. You're welcome?"

"How have you been?" She had put on fifty pounds, but appeared happy, and had a big smile on her face.

"I have been wonderful since I married a good Christian man, and accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior."

"Oh hey, is that Brittney over near the bar?" I asked, departing with as much alacrity as I deemed polite. "I haven't seen her in ten years!"

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

New York -- August 25, 2012

Step 3: Seduce Sarah

"Your first challenge," she began, "should you choose to accept it, is to name the seven sexiest words in the English language. One bad choice, and challenge two is peace in the Middle East. You have five minutes."

She wanted to see if I still had any sense of whimsy, or whether Tasha had sucked all the fun out of my life. "Child's play."

"You may begin." Sarah sipped her coffee, watching me with her Mona Lisa smile.

"There are layers to this challenge," I said. "You will roll your eyes and scoff if I choose pretentiously obscure words like 'callipygian', or 'euphonic', or if I choose something nonsensically pseudo-intellectual like 'cellar door'. My best bet is to stick with humor and heart, which is also what I find sexiest."

Sarah was bemused. I could tell she enjoyed listening to me think aloud. "What is 'callipygian'"?

"Having a nice ass." I gestured toward hers with my coffee cup.

Sarah bobbed her head from side to side, considering. "That one might have worked."

"Alas, we'll never know."

Sarah's half-smile turned into a half-laugh. "Tick-tock, Lance."

"Chocolate."

"Ha! That's one."

"Breasts."

She peered down at her own, stretching the limits of the fabric of her tank top. "I can't imagine why that word would jump to your mind. You're such a guy. That's two."

"Tulgey."

"'Tulgey'? What the fuck is 'tulgey'?" She was frowning.

I suppressed a smirk at her disappointment. Was she revealing a desire for me to succeed? "Have you forgotten Lewis Caroll's Jabberwocky, the single most erotic poem in the English language?"

"Erotic? Jabberwocky?" She was smiling now, anticipating a punchline.

"Don't you remember how the Jabberwock came through the tulgey wood?"

She laughed. "I thought he burbled as he came."

"That too! You see? The poem is downright pornographic."

Sarah smiled with delight. She had missed our banter, and reminding her was the true point of these challenges. "So, 'tulgey'. Use it in a sentence."

"A good man's wood is always tulgey for his lady love."

"Points for originality. That's three."

"Love."

"From any other guy, I would call shenanigans. But from you? Four."

"Cock."

"Bold and vulgar, contrasting with the arguably effeminate romanticism of 'love' -- which is smart, dear, because if you had tried two girly words in a row, I would have kicked you in your vagina."

I laughed.

Sarah continued. "You're also subtly reminding me of what swings between your legs. I approve. Five."

"My sixth word is Yes."

"A short, classic word, of ancient vintage with notes of cherry and some sort of peel. Orange peel? No. Lemon? No. I have it -- Vincent Peale. Your Power of Positive Thinking is accepted."

"Adlai Stevenson said he found the Apostle Paul appealing, and the Apostle Peale appalling. Please don't lump me in with either."

She blew a raspberry with her tongue, but her smile was wider when she stopped. "Quit showing off. Can he stick the dismount? What is your seventh word?"

"First word. I was working my way to the sexiest. It is 'Sarah'."

"You've still got it, Lance!" She raised her hands over her head in a cheer, and leaned over for a brief hug. I returned it, inhaling her scent and absorbing her soft warmth. I could get used to this.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Mankato -- June 16, 2012

Dwayne was evidently an apologetic drunk. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry." He was sitting on a bench next to Scott the Hoople.

"It's okay, man, it was twelve years ago. I got a war wound. Chicks dig the war wound."

"Coach always said we was supposed to check the field before we threw the javelin, but why were you even on the field, you dumb shit?"

"I don't know, man, I was baked."

"Your poor foot. I'm so sorry."

Scott stretched out his foot and flexed it, as if to show there was no harm done. He seemed pleased. As he should be. He had waited twelve years for an apology from Dwayne the Impaler, and finally got it.

I returned my attention to Brittney. "So where in hell is Courtney? I haven't heard from her in ten years." It was getting late, and she was my only lead.

Brittney didn't like my question. Half of my former classmates were as drunk as Dwayne, and she was not one of the exceptions.

She pouted and asked, "Are you still holding a torch for Courtney? Forget about her. You know something? There was this computer dating thing in high school and you were my number four." She stood too close to me, running her hand down the front of my shirt.

Number four for Brittney? I hadn't hacked that! "A computer once told me I had ten million dollars in a Nigerian bank account."

"Really! Let's get it!" Her reddened eyes were wide with bleary excitement.

"I'll forward you the email. Courtney was my best frenemy ever. Where is she?"

Brittney huffed. "Fine. She got an economics degree in Minneapolis, and went to work for a company in New York, as a financial analyst. The last I talked to her was... four years ago? She was engaged to some hot shot securities trader, and was bragging about the great jobs they both had, and how much money they were making." Brittney's tone was critical -- she clearly resented her old friend.

"Which company?" I watched Madison and Pete duck off into the trees together, trying to undo ten years of regret. Good luck, guys.

"I don't remember," she slurred. "A name like a sixties girl group. The Lemon Sisters or something."

Lemon? "Lehman? Lehman Brothers?"

"Yeah, that was it."

Oh, Courtney...

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

New York -- August 25, 2012

Sarah was having fun, and I had been right -- making her complicit in her own seduction was getting her hot. Her cheeks were flushed, and she struck a provocative position in her chair after she stopped hugging me. "Your next task is a tough one. I heard about this from Heather, that you had some mysterious ability to undo a woman's bra strap without her noticing."

That earned a grin. "Some have alleged the power is psychic in origin."

"You dated some girls dumb enough to fall for that?" She tsked with her tongue. "Your challenge is to undo mine without me catching you. Good luck getting that done by ten o'clock. What do you want to discuss in a futile effort to distract me?"

I flashed my predator smile.

"What?"

I kept showing my teeth, waiting for her to catch on.

"Oh, you didn't!" She reached behind her back to check her bra, and blushed. "How the fuck..."

I raised my palms in mock helplessness. I had done it during our last hug, but keeping the aura of mystery would work in my favor.




Might Have Been Ch. 08: Conclusion



∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Minneapolis -- July 15, 2012

"Lance?" Amber was surprised, and did not appear happy to see me. I had obtained the address from her father, and found her in Uptown, in an apartment building overlooking Lake Calhoun.

"I was in town and thought I would check up on some old friends."

"My apartment isn't clean. You should have called first, and we could have met somewhere." She stepped outside her apartment door, and began shutting it, when a voice inside called, "Amber, who is it?"

I recognized the voice -- Sidney.

Before the door could shut, I called inside. "Hey Sidney, I was looking for you too."

"Oh wow, Lance?" Sidney came to the door, and encircled her arm absent-mindedly around Amber's waist. Amber shoved it away, then fidgeted when she realized she hadn't been subtle about it.

I broke out laughing. My meddling in the alternate universe had only brought them together a little sooner. Some things were just going to happen anyway, and that thought made me happy.

Amber frowned at me while Sidney took offense. Sidney reacted first. "What the fuck are you laughing at?"

She was shushed by Amber. "Lance, you can't let my father know."

I raised my hands in a placating gesture. "I won't tell a soul without your permission, and I'm laughing because, oddly enough, I was certain you two should be together, and I'm pleased to be right."

Mollified, Sidney put her hand back around Amber's waist. "See, Amber, most people back home won't care."

"Most people aren't my father."

I changed the subject. "I need to hear how you two got together. How about I buy you both lunch, and you tell me the story?"

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

New York -- August 25, 2012

Sarah glared at me with mock disapproval as she left the bathroom after reattaching her bra. The tone of her voice was more encouraging. "So far, so good, Lance. One last hurdle."

The second challenge had been obviously intended to make it impossible to meet my self-imposed deadline, but Sarah must have known I would eventually succeed. She had just been stalling for time, and would be a good sport about her failure, particularly since she had one more challenge left. For her third task I was expecting something subjective -- something that allowed her to decide whether or not she had been seduced. I wasn't wrong.

"Your final challenge is to explain why I should date you, when I'm already seeing someone else."

I showed no surprise or disappointment. Women like Sarah were only single when they wanted to be, and she was too sociable to stay single for long. "Who are you seeing?"

"A former classmate from Julliard -- an orchestra geek."

I set down my cup of coffee. I wanted to watch this. "Does he think he can know the dancer from the dance?"

Sarah impersonated an old song, turning a whiter shade of pale. She had stopped breathing, and was silent for several seconds as her eyes gazed far away. "What did you say?"

"You used to have that couplet in your locker. I already said that your breakup with Dave was beautiful, but I didn't say why I thought so. Your dreams were heading in different directions. He needed to go to Madison. He had a rare combination of talents in visual art and computer programming, and is now one of the hottest game designers in Silicon Valley. You have loved dance ever since you were fourteen, and needed to be here. The two of you had to choose between love and your own identity, and you were strong enough to choose identity. Isn't that what the Yeats quote means to you? Without the dance -- the dancer might as well not even exist?"

Sarah was silent, her face haunted. Breaking up with Dave had been one of the toughest things she had ever done, and I was giving her what she had sought from me so desperately in the pool parking lot, several universes away -- absolution and understanding.

I kept talking. "If someone you love won't allow you to be the person you are meant to be, the relationship is doomed. Tasha taught me that."

Sarah's lips were starting to move, but no words came. Her eyes welled with tears, which she didn't brush away.

I could never decline a chance to monologue. "Ten years ago, we were both strongly interested in each other. To me, you were a force of nature, the walking epitome of everything I thought was sexy and cool. But because you were dating my best friend, we only loved each other as friends. After the breakup, you and I were never possible for the same reason you and Dave couldn't work out. But that has changed -- I'm here. We're both pursuing our dreams while living only a couple miles apart." I took a deep breath. "I think you will break up with your boyfriend because you were always curious about what was possible between us. The two of us connected in a way you have only experienced one other time in your entire life. You're a woman who makes opportunities and seizes them, and I think there is no way in hell you will let this one escape. We can dance with each other, and I won't step on your feet."

The last line bordered on the maudlin, but I was betting Sarah would take it with the sweetness I intended.

Sarah finally spoke, gaining a measure of control over her emotions. Tears were flowing freely. "My first dance teacher in Rochester had that Yeats quote up as a poster in her studio. I asked her what the answer was. She said, 'the dance never tells you it's pregnant two days before you go on tour'."

I laughed at that.

Sarah smiled briefly, before continuing. "I had forgotten something I hadn't thought of in years. You just brought it all back."

"What?"

"Um... I never told anyone this." She had grabbed a handful of Kleenex, and was cleaning up her brightly blushing face.

"Yes?"

"The night before I flew to New York, I went looking for you."

It was my turn to say nothing.

"Dave hated me for breaking up with him. I felt like shit, and I was scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Scared I had lost you both. You were my best friends ever." Her expression was cute and sad.

"Why did you look for me?"

"I thought maybe..." Her voice faded into reminiscence.

"Yes?"

She closed her eyes in annoyance, and opened them. "Fuck this. I'm not a tongue-tied teenager. You said we were interested in each other. Hell, yes. The sexual tension between us would have fueled a dozen years of sitcoms."

"Why do you think I'm here, Sarah?"

"I loved both you guys. I kept thinking I would have been happy spending the rest of my life with Dave, if only we weren't heading in different directions, but you..."

"Yes?"

"I felt guilty about this through the last two years of high school. I always wondered if I had chosen wrong when Dave asked me out the night we made all the snowmen. I wondered if I should have held out for you. You were so talented, creative, and smart, and you knew it. Nothing would stand in your way. You were going to be a comet, and I wanted to watch you blaze through the sky."

It was my turn to blush.

"It was impossible," Sarah said. "Still, I always wondered."

"So what happened the night before you went to New York?" I prompted.

"I stopped by the pool searching for you. I was stupid, depressed, and half-drunk. I wanted you to help me. I couldn't see a way for us to be together. I was going to New York. You were going to Chicago. But you were so smart and I wanted you to find a way to make it work anyway. I wanted you to find a way where we could be together and still share our dreams. The Yeats poem kept coming to mind that night. It meant to me what you said."

"I remember that night. There was a storm. We closed early that day and I went home. I wasn't there when you stopped by."

"Yes, and I got too drunk in the parking lot and passed out. I never told you what I wanted to say."

Not in this universe.

Sarah grew more animated. "Don't you see, Lance? Everyone else has regrets in their life. They spend their time wondering what things would have been like if they had made different decisions. But that's not me."

"No."

"I don't have regrets in life. I'm proud of that. I'm proud of what I have tried, and my failures are just fertilizer that help me grow."

"No regrets at all?"

"Just one. Just you." Sarah's smile was radiant, powered by the exultant release of a confession.

In all my inter-temporal wanderings, I had realized I never had a real chance with Sarah -- there was no moment in the past I could change to convince her to be with me. She was not my Might-Have-Been.

I was hers.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Chicago -- August 4, 2012

Once or twice, Tasha and I tried to socialize as friends, but there was too much history and pain. I did still check up on her from time to time. She had no close friends or family in the area, and if she were heading to a bad place, I wanted to know. I didn't plan on intervening personally, but I would call her father or mother, who had always liked me. If I told them she was in trouble, they would believe me, and hopefully help her out. So I had been calling her once a month. This would be the last time.

"Tell me honestly, how are you doing?" I asked.

"Lance, you weren't indispensable. I can live without you."

"I always knew that, but I wasn't sure you did."

"Don't patronize me. If you must know, I have a new job in pharmaceutical sales, and I'm dating a doctor."

Maybe he will have more luck getting you to take your Zoloft, I didn't say. "I'm happy for you. I'm moving to New York at the end of the month."

"Well, good luck, Lance. I know it's what you wanted." I heard resentment in her voice. Tasha always resented anyone who made her feel guilty.

"Good bye, Tasha."

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

New York -- August 25, 2012

Sarah pulled out her phone and punched a number. After a few seconds, I heard, "Hey John."

...

"Yeah, um, I had fun too. I need to talk to you. We need to break up."

...

"Well, there's not someone else, but there will be soon. An old friend showed up in town and I want to give this a try, but I need to do the right thing with you first." She waggled her eyebrows at me.

...

"We only had five dates. Phone breakups are fine for anything less than ten dates." She sounded defensive.

...

"Says me, that's who. Look on the bright side -- your next girlfriend might not conspicuously wear earplugs when your orchestra plays Schoenberg."

...

"OK, I need to go. Best of luck!"

She hung up, and leaned forward. "There is more about that night before I left for New York. I remember promising to myself that if you figured out a way for us to share our dreams, I would grab it. I gave up after you sent that email, and I had forgotten, but this is a promise I would love to keep." She paused, letting her words sink in.

Sarah always had a sense for drama. Her half smile was back, projecting anticipation and mischief, and her eyes were shining. "Step Four, Lance. I want you to Step Four me, hard."

Step Four: Have wild sex with Sarah.

"Sarah, I just want to say--"

She interrupted me with an exasperated laugh, throwing her hands up in the air. "God, you don't know when to shut up. Just kiss me, dumbass." I rose, and suddenly she was in my arms, melting into me -- lips as soft and yielding as I remembered from that day at the pool. I was improvising now, my careful planning only took me this far.

Sarah's hands caressed my back, shoulders, waist, and ass. She kneaded my flesh, as if assuring herself of the reality of my presence.

Her mouth pulled away from mine, and I opened my eyes to see her smiling at me. Her full lips were stretched wide over perfect teeth. This was no half-smile -- no Mona Lisa smile -- this was Sarah with joy unchained. Her hands clutched at my belt as she stepped backwards, pulling me toward the couch, with my weight pressing down on her.

Unfortunately, she had pulled before I was ready, and my foot caught the table leg, tipping bagels and cream cheese onto the floor, and the remnants of hot coffee onto my leg. "Ow!"

Sarah saw the stain on my pant leg. "Oh shit!" she said. "I'm sorry. I got too excited. Do you need ice?"

"No, the pain is already fading. It wasn't that hot. If you want my pants off, you need but ask."

Sarah laughed into my ear as she kissed it. "We will clean up the food later. This is more important." Her white neck swanned back as she pulled my face down to kiss her flesh. The skin of her neck was soft and warm in my mouth. She sighed in pleasure as she ran her fingers through my hair -- nails raking my scalp and running down my spine, causing me to shiver and press my hips against her.

She felt my stiffness, and thrust herself against it. "Yes," she sighed.

I started to lift her shirt, but she stopped me. She pulled my face to meet hers and said, "We have had a dozen years of foreplay, Lance. We can practice that later. Right now I want you inside me, looking at my face. I want to see you. I want you to make me believe this is real." As she spoke, her hands unbuckled my belt, and tried to unzip my fly -- but it was stuck.

Her fingers worked with futility for several seconds before she threw up her hands in bemused frustration. "You have fifteen seconds to find a way to get them off, or I'm fetching a crowbar. I'll be getting in them -- now. Chop chop. We have a schedule to keep."

I stood, and quickly shimmied out of them -- I would fix the zipper later. Sarah started working at the waistband of her own shorts, then stopped. "Don't forget your condom," she said.

"Umm..." Fuck.

Sarah was dumbfounded. "You planned every step of getting in my pants within an hour of seeing me for the first time after ten years, and you didn't bring protection?"

"Sorry," I said, feeling sheepish, "I seem to have had the most amazing run of luck where every woman was on some other method of birth control."

"What, they don't have diseases in Chicago? Eww. There's some on the coffee table. Get one." Sarah pointed behind me, looking almost as embarrassed as I was.

I found one and put it on. "If you pass the one-month test," she said, "I'll go back on the pill, but you ain't riding bareback, cowboy, until I see some test results."

Finally satisfied at my prophylactization, Sarah grappled me again, and in a flurry of hands and kicks we were both naked from the waist down. Anticipation lit her eyes as her hands embraced my face, pulling my mouth to hers. We shifted our hips, and her smile opened into an expression of rapture as I slid into her. I exulted as a hot, tight wetness enveloped me. She closed her eyes only briefly, fastening her gaze on mine once more.

I touched Sarah's face, exploring her soft warmth. Her skin counterfeited porcelain, but surrendered on contact, just like her lips. I lost myself in the uncanny texture of her skin, and the luxuriant black waves of her hair.

Her mouth bit down gently on my hand, tasting it. Sarah's eyes roamed over my face, drinking in my features. Flickers of disbelief, passion, and joy played out across her face.

A thrust of my hips opened her eyes wide as she gasped. Her own hips pushed back fiercely against mine, and her dancer's legs wrapped themselves around my thighs. I had wanted to see if she preferred it slow or hard, and I had my answer.

I watched her expression change with each thrust. Her smile, as she felt me slide within her, was an aphrodisiac undreamt of by gods and men. Every parting of the lips, every roll of the tongue, every flare of the nostrils, every moan and sigh, screamed to me how she felt to be in my arms, with me inside her.

My feet found purchase on the arm of the couch, providing leverage for my hips. I pushed my legs against the furniture, and Sarah cried my name. I pushed against the armrest again -- and flinched at the harsh sound of snapping wood.

I looked behind me to see how much trouble I was in.

"Did you just break my couch?" Sarah peeked over my shoulder to survey the damage. The armrest was jutting out at a thirty degree angle, with exposed upholstery and splintered wood making it resemble a compound fracture. "Impressive. That's one we can tell stories about."

"I'll buy you a new couch."

"Don't worry about it. The wood in the couch wasn't tulgey enough, unlike yours." She squeezed me with her inner muscles. I seized her face and brought it forward to my mouth. I breathed her scent as my kisses devoured her lips and tongue. I thrust harder, faster, each movement bringing forth a moan from the depths of Sarah's throat.

She pushed my face back so she could look me in the eyes as she spoke between my thrusts. "This... I have wanted this... for years. I have wanted... to feel you... inside me."

At my next thrust, her sexual fervor drove her to spin underneath me, spilling us off the couch and onto the floor.

Something sharp stabbed my side. The pain was excruciating and I couldn't stop the expletive. "Motherfucker!"

Sarah was giggling uncontrollably. "Your pillow talk could use some work, Lance."

I torqued my back, and fished out a solitary black stiletto heel. "I think I ruptured a kidney."

Sarah covered her face with her hand. "I need to clean better."

"I'm only disappointed you weren't wearing them when I knocked this morning." The heel was going to leave a bruise, but the pain was fading at Sarah's touch.

"Someday soon I'll wear them and nothing else, just for you." Sarah was grinding hard onto me as she spoke. She shifted her hips to change the angle of my thrusts to one she preferred, and she cried my name again -- only this time the vowel rose an octave and she held it as her thighs tightened around me. Sarah used her legs to bring me deep inside her.

My own pleasure, and the waves of Sarah's climax coursing through her body, brought me to the same place. Her blue eyes were my entire world as we felt the culmination of our long contentious relationship. Love and fire, truth and victory, exaltation, imagination, mischief, wit and wisdom all danced together in the depths of her eyes.

As my shudders subsided, she stayed on top of me, smiling and caressing my face. I saw her eyes fill with tears, which fell and rained on my own cheeks. Sarah blushed but did not look away. She was happy to display her joy.

Make her laugh. "I have made a woman cry once before during sex, but it involved chili peppers."

She only chuckled. "I don't think you would understand."

"Try me."

"Take me to the bedroom."

I rolled out from underneath her, lifted her in my arms, and navigated our way toward her bedroom. The apartment proved to be an obstacle course. I reached her bed only by leaving a swathe of destruction in my wake. I bonked her elbow on the door frame, stubbed my toe, dinged my shin, and capsized a potted plant, which I righted with my foot while balancing Sarah in my arms. Sarah just laughed at every misstep and accident, and held my face in her hands.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Batavia, Illinois -- August 6, 2012

"When are you leaving?" Dr. Nguyen asked.

"The twenty-second is my last day, then I'm driving to New York. I wanted to thank you for the letter of recommendation."

"I wish you the best of luck, Lance, but that isn't why I asked you to come to my office. We have an unusual situation, and I wanted your input."

I sat.

"As you may know, we've already posted the opening for your position. One of the applicants put you down as a reference, and frankly, she needs one."

Uh oh. "Who is it?"

"Irina Pugacheva."

"Ah."

"'Ah', indeed. Frankly, I wasn't even aware she had a hard science background. It's impressive, but out of date. She wants to use this as a stepping stone to American academia, and to pay her way now that she is divorcing her husband."

I hadn't heard that. I suppressed a smile.

Dr. Nguyen continued. "However, Mrs. Pugacheva has a certain... reputation." Fermilab was affiliated with the University of Chicago, and sexual gossip was the only thing that could travel faster than light.




Might Have Been Ch. 08: Conclusion



I thought she deserved a defense. "People sometimes make poor choices in life and need a second chance."

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but I feel obligated to ask whether your recommendation is biased by other factors."

"Did she sleep with me in order to curry a recommendation?"

"That's more blunt than I would prefer."

"She didn't. I made mistakes that derailed my life for a few years. Irina was a kindred spirit, and I encouraged her to get her life back on track. That's it. She must be going through a tough time right now, and could use some support."

Professor Nguyen leaned back, and smiled like a Cheshire cat. "Viktor Pugachev is an asshole, who took credit for some of my research back when I was a postgrad. If I can get a promising replacement for you, and piss him off at the same time, it's all good."

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

New York -- August 25, 2012

Tasha and I once went to a comedy club in downtown Chicago. We arrived late and received seats off to the side. The opening act was a magician, who specialized in performing his tricks from behind a velvet-covered podium. The audience oohed and ahhed every trick, but because of our vantage point, we could see how everything was done.

From the front, it appeared as if he were holding up a curtain held in two gloved hands, behind which objects would magically appear and disappear at his will. From the side, I could see one of the gloved hands was a fake -- physically attached to the baton that supported the curtain -- this freed his right hand to manipulate objects in a completely mundane fashion.

Tasha thought the act was ruined -- the mystery was gone. She was in a sour mood which had us leaving before the magic act was even complete.

Her reaction was unfathomable to me. I was fascinated, and thought the mystery had deepened. Did he make the curtain with the fake hand or did he buy it? How much did he have to practice to keep the illusion? Could I move objects the way he did without letting the audience see my shoulder move? How had he concealed the switch between the real and fake hand? As a result, I studied magic as a hobby for months. While the mechanics of a trick were often simple, creating a convincing illusion took extraordinary artistic skill, and I had great respect for talented magicians.

I thought of magic when I beheld Sarah's naked form for the first time. Denudement. Amy's malapropism flashed through my head as I laid Sarah down on her bed, stripping off her tank top and sports bra. She removed my shirt, and after discarding the condom, I joined her on the bed. Hidden behind clothes, Sarah's body had been a mystery, but now, Sarah was like the exposed magic act -- the mystery was not diminished, but enhanced. Her form was now a foreign, beautiful landscape, calling out for exploration.

How responsive would her nipples be to my fingers and tongue? Did she like to have them pinched or pulled, or just lovingly touched? Did she want them suckled and squeezed during sex, or did she find it a distraction? Was her skin there as soft as the rest of her, or even softer?

She still had the ruby belly button piercing, with matching studs in her ears. Did she like her navel played with and kissed, or did it tickle? Sarah's dancing had left her stomach, hips, and legs in the best shape I had ever seen -- her ass was well and truly callipygian. How flexible was she? How far could she spread those legs? Her bikini line was neatly trimmed, but she didn't shave, presenting a thatch of beautiful and natural black hair. How did she like to be touched? Directly, or only after gentle and circuitous preparation? How did she taste?

I would find the answers to some of those questions today. For the rest, I hoped for a lifetime to answer -- as well as the answers to the questions those answers would themselves raise, ad infinitum -- world without end.

We roamed across each other's bodies, familiarizing ourselves, testing responses. She lingered on my chest and shoulders, with her fingers tracing the definition of my muscles. She toyed with my chest hair and ran her fingernails down my stomach. Her hands traced the outline of my legs, and when she finally grasped my cock, she raked the shaft with the backs of her nails. She seemed to like the way it felt, as she cupped me in her hand, and nestled her face against my chest.

I began to speak, but the phone rang.

"The machine will take it," she muttered, snuggling closer.

"You still have a land line?"

She shrugged as her answering machine activated. The caller was her new ex-boyfriend. "Sarah, I'm really upset about this, and don't know what went wrong. Things were going so well last night after the concert. You taught me things about my body--"

Sarah rose quickly, and her hand moved as if she still practiced Taekwondo. The answering machine was muted with extreme prejudice, falling off her bed stand. I doubted it would ever work again.

She bared her teeth at me in a rictus of embarrassment.

I chuckled. "It's okay, I kind of guessed from the condoms and the lonely stiletto heel on the floor next to the couch."

She still looked sheepish.

The phone rang again, and her expression changed to annoyance. "Sorry, let me yell at him and he will stop calling."

I gestured assent.

Sarah answered her phone. "Listen, just because we slept together once doesn't give you the right--" Her face suddenly fell. "Oh, hi mom."

I doubled over in silent laughter, and she kicked me -- twice.

"Don't ask," she said to her mother.

...

"Hey, guess who's here? Lance!"

...

"Yeah, from Monroe."

I waved.

"Lance says 'Hi'."

...

"Hi Lance," Sarah relayed.

...

"Yes, he did have a cute butt, and still does."

...

She grinned at me. "Yes, he did hear me say that."

...

"Maaaybe. We were just discussing that now." She turned to me, and covered the phone, speaking in an aside. "Mom always liked you." She uncovered the phone. "Can I call you back tonight?"

...

"Thanks, love you, bye." Sarah hung up, waited a few seconds, and removed the phone from the hook. She collapsed back on the bed.

"Have I told you today how awesome you are?" I asked.

"No more interruptions!" she declared. "Where were we?" She resumed her position, with her head on my chest, and her hand between my legs. "Much better."

"You were going to tell me why you were crying," I reminded her.

"No, you asked, and I said 'take me to the bedroom'."

I remembered something else about the evening we spent in front of the swimming pool, several universes away. Sarah had been morose over her breakup with Dave. She had defended her decision, but she had voiced doubts. What else did I know about her? Sarah had lived in New York for ten years now and hadn't found anyone special. I had just watched her dump her last boyfriend over the phone, with not a single sign of regret.

I knew why she was crying.

"Sarah, you have this tough, porcelain exterior, but you're softer than you let anyone know."

She kissed my chest.

I slid my arm underneath her to hold her close, and let my thumb trace the line of her spine. "You second-guessed yourself when you left Dave. You loved him, and feared you threw away your only chance at love."

"I'm a stupid-head. I know I did the right thing, but still..."

"So now you're afraid you're too high maintenance, demanding, or bitchy for anyone worthy of you."

She looked up at me, with her eyes widened. I had voiced her thoughts almost exactly.

I took her face in my hands, and kissed her. "You're not too high maintenance." I kissed her again, and the taste of salt told me her tears had resumed. "And you're not too demanding." I left the sentence off on a tone that conveyed I was going to continue, but I said nothing more.

When she realized I was stopping there in my defense of her, she punched me in the arm. (One of the upsides of multiple universes, I had found, was getting more mileage out of my jokes.)

Sarah spoke her mind. "Sometimes I thought that. You don't know how many times I have considered settling." She looked at me with mock accusation. "Somewhere along the line, I developed a taste for smart men, with confidence bordering on arrogance. In New York, most men fitting that profile are materialistic Wall Street assholes." Her smile reappeared. "But you're here now. I hate regret, and now I have a chance to see what can happen. Yes, that makes me happy." Her hand squeezed my cock for emphasis. When it responded to her touch, she continued her squeezes, and began kissing my neck.

"It's my turn to tell a story," I said as my body responded to her hands and lips. "I recently rethought every major decision in my adult life. And I couldn't think of any decision I could have made differently that would have brought us together, no matter how much I wanted it. I would have had to betray who I was to do it, and I knew you would never let me do that." I paused as her mouth moved down my neck to lick my nipples.

Sarah evidently had a thing for a man's chest muscles. She was kissing all around my pecs, and she got more into it when I flexed them, kissing harder, and increasing the rate at which her hand pumped my cock.

"But I also realized I was comparing almost every woman I dated to you. Was she as beautiful as you? Was she as clever? As quick? Did she have your decency and common sense?"

Sarah had moved her kisses down to my stomach. She licked my belly button and headed south.

"I think half the reason Tasha sucked me in so deeply was that she was the only woman I had met who could hold a candle to you. But her virtues came with mental illness."

"It takes a lot of effort not to go crazy when you're as awesome as I am," she said, just before her mouth embraced me.

"I'll tell you the full story someday," I said through a moan, "but you really did help me get my life back together. Mostly just by example."

Sarah used both her hands and mouth as she fellated me. Her hand rapidly stroked the base of my shaft, while her lips swallowed the glans. As soon as she had me back to full strength, she climbed up on top to straddle me. "Just a sec, I want to try something," she said, producing another condom and placing it on me. She then wrapped one leg around my thigh, but extended the other into a front split that placed her foot right next to my face. Using her hands for balance, she brought herself down on top of me, still very wet and slick from our earlier bout, and I entered her. The happy smile on her face flowered into euphoria.

"If we can handle each other as lovers--" I began.

Sarah interrupted. "Speaking of sexual compatibility, I need to confess something. I have a mild foot fetish. I've always said the perfect man would be one who could have their cock in me, and suck my toes while I did a front split. And I think you just... might... have... the perfect torso length." She adjusted the position of her legs, and wiggled her toes in front of me.

Suddenly, she stopped, her face contorted in agony. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" She quickly flipped her legs around, and dismounted, laying back on the bed. "Stupid amateur."

"What's wrong?" I asked, concerned.

"I didn't stretch. Cramp." Her jaw was clenched tight in pain.

"Where?"

She pointed to her left calf. I took it in my hands -- her sinews were knotted into a ball of steel cords. I worked it with my fingers until it relaxed.

"Oh, bless you. It serves me right for wanting to rush things."

"Rush things? I've known you for twelve years."

She grinned while performing a calf stretch on her sore leg. "Yeah, you have." She switched to her other calf. "Sorry, I'd promised no more interruptions and now I'm stopping to stretch."

"I'm watching a nude dancer perform calisthenics, and you think you need to apologize?"

She just smiled, and worked her way through quad, hamstring, and groin stretches, all of which did amazing things to her body and to my libido.

I idly ran my fingers down her back. "What were you saying about my perfect torso? I liked the sound of that."

"If I can mount you properly, after I stretch, I think you might have the perfect length to kiss my toes while you're inside me."

"I don't know. I have tied up a woman and tortured her with chili sauce. Another girlfriend liked having sex in a closet with another man in the room. Yet another loved having a finger up her ass. I even did a threesome once. But toe-sucking? That's just weird." I knew Sarah would take this as open communication rather than a boast.

"You're talking about your sex life now? You have changed. I'm going to have to get all the filthy secrets you wouldn't tell me in high school. Heather told me your turn-ons were listening to a woman talk dirty and watching her orgasm." Sarah had completed her stretches and flipped her legs to perform her split on top of me. "Suck my toes and I promise you'll get both. We can discuss some of the things you did with those other girls, and I'll have my own ideas, but I draw the line at chili sauce."

"I don't know..." I felt a squeeze of hot velvet as she enveloped me again.

Sarah was not to be denied. "How about if I feed you chocolate with my toes?" She wiggled them again.

I thought I knew where she was going. I thrust up inside her, and kissed her toes. "I would prefer to play with your breasts." She leaned over, allowing me to cup them both. Her nipples were pink diamonds on skin the color and texture of white rose petals. I felt them tighten between my fingers, pinched them still tighter, and felt Sarah quiver and clench around me in response.

"Just fuck me with your tulgey wood. Fuck me hard." She laughed as she spoke.

I took each toe into my mouth, tasting them. It really did arouse her. Her inner muscles still massaged me, and she was grinding herself against my pelvic bone. I could feel she was close to orgasm already.

"You love my cock in you, don't you?" I asked, using two of the words at once.

"Yes!"

I cried her name, finishing the septet. I took all five of her toes in my mouth, and ran my tongue across them like they were a xylophone.

That brought her over the brink. She yelped, then sighed. Her hands grabbed onto my chest, and her pelvis pushed down to shove me deep. She screamed again, then held herself still as her body shook with tremors and aftershocks.

She finally spoke, laughing again. "Oh wow, I think you're right! Those are the seven sexiest words in the English language. The only words that might compete were when you told me earlier you were wrong."

Maintaining our most intimate point of contact, Sarah abandoned her split, and her hands drew me into a sitting position, where she now straddled atop me, with both legs wrapped around my waist, placing her breasts directly in front of my face. I kissed her nipples for the first time, as she slowly rocked on top of me.

Her mouth hissed encouragements down toward my ears. "You've been wondering for years what those taste like, haven't you Lance?"

I answered by clasping a nipple between my teeth, and flicking it with my tongue.

"Oh, that's it. I like how you use your tongue. I have wondered what it would be like to have you suck them. I still sometimes get myself off at night imagining it's you."

I swirled my tongue around her nipples, as her inner heat caressed me.

"I cheated on our deal. I said that if you sucked my toes, I would talk dirty for you. You bought what I would give freely. I can't help myself. When you're near me, I just turn into a dirty-mouthed slut, who badly needs to be fucked."

My hands grazed her flanks and thighs, savoring soft warm skin stretched taut over muscles as hard as rock from dancing. This woman would never tire out.

Sarah's words continued to push me to the brink. "You're going to get spoiled," she said. "My tits are in your mouth, my pussy is about to suck the cum out of your cock again, and now you're grabbing my ass. Are you going to see how deep inside me you can go? Please? I want to feel you in deep. Fuck me deep."

She spread her legs wide, undulated her hips, and I was completely engulfed.

"Does shoving that spear of yours into me get you all hot? Are you going to come? Are you going to shoot your cum inside my hot... wet... pussy? I want it! I need to feel you come inside me!" A sly smile crossed her face. "Fuck me with your tulgey wood!"

That did it, and like the Jabberwock, I burbled as I came.

Sarah collapsed next to me on the bed, and I held her in my arms. She was as full of delight and promise as a spring morning. With her cuddling next to me, I was elated, and optimistic.

Dr. Nguyen's experiments would be a success, and they would need to be replicated and expanded, opening whole new vistas in physics. I was starting grad school next week knowing more about the ramifications of the theory than any man alive. I had a wonderful woman in my arms, and a universe of futures was spread out before me, with each possible path more beautiful than the next. I didn't know whether my life could stay as perfect as this moment, but I relished the challenge.

"It's 9:56 AM," Sarah said.

"Yeah? How about that."

"Everything happened like you said it would." She was just realizing I had hit my called shot. "How the hell does anyone plan anything that well?"

"You thought that was all planning? I burnt myself, took a stiletto heel in my kidney, forgot to bring condoms, broke your couch, and almost gave you a concussion on the door frame. I think I killed your plant, and I gave you a muscle cramp."

Sarah propped up her head with her elbow to look at me, drawing lines on my chest. "What world do you live in? When you said you planned to have me in bed by ten this morning, I thought you were being audaciously arrogant, knowing I've always found that hot. I'd been planning to string you along for a few weeks to ensure you weren't a basket case, before trying to jump your bones. I didn't think you had a chance of actually succeeding today. The bumps, mishaps, and interruptions are just normal. The only place stuff like that doesn't happen during sex is in porn movies."

"Or fantasies. Or dreams."

"No difference. How did you pull this off?"

"You won't believe me, but I promise I'll tell you all about it someday."

Sarah was satisfied by that, and lay on her back, leaning her head on my shoulder, and beaming at me with contentment. "Did you have any other plans for today?" she asked.

I started to trace a sideways figure eight on her stomach -- then thought better of it, and drew a line instead, extending it onward and downward. I answered her question with my fingers and lips, knowing I could kiss and touch her for eternity.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Epilogue

Chicago -- August 22, 2012

It was my last day in the lab. Tomorrow morning, I would drive to New York, and sell my car on arrival. I had spent most of the day showing Irina how to do my job. She was indeed a fast learner, but seemed scared of me. She hadn't asked me why I had given her the advice I did. Instead, she asked questions about work, and she made sure she understood her role.

She had wandered off somewhere while I reviewed my software documentation in the experiment room, where work still continued. The data required months of analysis, and every day they tweaked the settings and teleported more particles.

I observed progress closely. When I hadn't been chasing down old almost-girlfriends or packing for New York, I had been reading everything I could find about Everett's theories, and Dr. Nguyen's experimental design. I planned on expanding them as part of my studies at Columbia.

The secrets of the resonance array were still mine. I hadn't told anyone what it could do if it were connected to a twelve volt power supply and you thought about a decision from your past.




Might Have Been Ch. 08: Conclusion



I wasn't sure why I had kept it a secret -- maybe I was worried how it might be used. One of the reasons why I had returned to my own timeline rather than stay in another, was that it felt wrong to permanently take over the consciousness of a version of me from another universe. If that alternate-me had made better choices, he deserved to enjoy the benefits.

I also wasn't sure what would happen if everyone knew. Would everyone want to find a universe where they had made better decisions, and abandon this one? Would they all find worlds where they were elected President, or were Hollywood stars, or had won the lottery? What would happen to this one if they never came back? I wasn't entirely convinced of my own arguments, but because there was so little I understood, it felt right to be cautious, to reside permanently in my own universe, keeping my secret.

The array stared at me from its containment unit. I extracted it, holding it in my hand. I pulled my portable power supply from my pocket, and thought to myself, decision time.

Should I use the array to visit an alternate universe where I can travel to New York a couple days early, and watch Sarah's morning routine for this upcoming Saturday? I could see what she wanted for breakfast, choose a time when I could get inside her building, and then surprise her. I could also perform a trial run or two, test my plan, and modify it if I didn't get the desired results. Once I had a plan that worked, I could leave before the seduction was complete, so the first time with Sarah would be in my real timeline. I could then return to my "home" timeline, knowing the plan was successful to a certain point. I would have to trust to improvisation from there.

Alternatively, I could just go home and eat dinner.

I decided to go home and eat dinner. Let the future take care of itself.

Of course, having made the decision, I could regret it, and use the array to change it. I rotated the array in my hands and smiled.

Some things were too important to be left entirely to chance.

--------

The End

Author's Note:

One thing I enjoyed doing in my writing is re-using characters in other stories. For those who are interested in what happened to some of these characters outside the novel: Tasha has an off-screen cameo in Words With Friends with Benefits and is the main character in Hope in Hell, where she finally confronts her demons; Amber is the title character in Trapped in Amber; and Courtney is the central character in Shell Game, and has a brief appearance in Thirteenth Seduction.

Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed a story that soaked up about a year of my free time in the telling, causing me to neglect work, house-cleaning, my ever-growing unconsumed backlog of books and movies, and personal hygiene. But don't take that as any pressure to vote or write a comment saying you enjoyed the damned thing. Nope, no pressure at all.