by Robin Roseau
"If I were planning a trip for us, without consulting you and without stealing any of your ideas..." she trailed off for a moment. "Any isolated chalet in Switzerland, perhaps."
"That would be nice," I replied. "Do you ski?"
"I do," she admitted. "You?" I nodded. "Are you good?"
"I used to be," I said. "Not racing good or anything like that, but decent."
"Black diamond?"
"Not all day," I said. "But yes." I paused. I really, really wanted another kiss. I turned my head more towards her and parted my lips, hoping she'd take the hint.
She didn't, not exactly, but she brushed my lips with a finger.
"I know," she said very quietly.
"May I look at you?"
She paused. "For a moment."
I opened my eyes. She was smiling softly, little crinkles at the corners of her eyes.
"If I kiss you now," she said, "We're going to skip over this part. If it weren't going so well, maybe that would be okay. Close your eyes now."
I did, but I squeezed her hand again. She rotated her wrist and captured my fingers with hers. We held hands.
"All right," she said after a moment. She paused. "A short one. I'm fifty-three years old."
I cocked my head, but didn't say anything.
"Does that bother you?"
"No. Ask me about the octogenarian sometime."
She laughed. "Seriously?"
I nodded.
"So you're into older women?"
"I'm into confident women," I replied. "Who treat me well," I added.
"Is that a euphemism for something?"
"Oh," I said. "No. I don't care to be abused."
"What do you consider abuse?"
I pulled my hand away from hers.
"Wait!" she said quickly.
"If you have to ask that-"
"No!" she said. "Do not complete that thought. Please, Cassidy. What do you consider abuse?"
"Hitting. Yelling. Capricious rules or enforcing the rules capriciously." I tried pulling away from her. "I should go."
"No!" she said firmly. "Cassidy, open your eyes and look at me. Please."
I opened my eyes, but I turned away.
"Please, Cassidy," she said again.
I turned back towards her, slowly.
"I don't hit. I spank playfully."
"How playfully?"
"That depends on the woman," she said.
"Keep going," I said coldly.
"Playfully," she said again. "I don't need to spank to punish."
I paused. "What do you do instead?"
"I tell you what you've done to disappoint me."
"What else?"
"If you need more than that, we would never make it in a real relationship. But this is just a weekend of play, isn't it? You've seen the worst from me you're going to get. I tell you what I want, and you do it. Right?"
I thought about it.
"Yelling?"
"I can lose my temper like any person," she said. "It is rare."
"How rare?"
"Discounting screaming at bad drivers on the freeway and vendors at work who were trying to screw my employer?" I nodded agreement. "The last time I yelled at someone was probably four or five years ago."
I considered her carefully.
"What else do you consider abuse?" she asked.
"You shouldn't have to ask," I replied.
"Some people don't consider it abuse if there aren't bruises," she replied.
I raised an eyebrow. "Did you want to leave bruises?"
"No. I think we both agree on what constitutes abuse. But I've had encounters where the woman wants what I consider abuse. She considered it foreplay."
"Have they gotten what they wanted?"
"In my younger years, yes. I decided I didn't like being like that, so no, not in years."
"How many years?"
"Over a decade, perhaps a decade and a half."
I studied her expression. Her brow was furrowed, and she had different lines around her eyes from when she'd been smiling. She had similar lines around her mouth.
"Do you want me to leave?" I asked.
"Did you want to leave?"
"That depends on whether we can get the magic back again or not."
"Leave that to me," she said. "Please stay, Cassidy."
"I'm sorry I overreacted."
"Close your eyes and lean back again."
I studied her for a moment longer then did what she said, settling into the cushions slightly. She moved closer, but not as close as she had been earlier. "I do not believe you over-reacted," she said. "We're learning to trust, and that takes time."
"Well, I'm sorry I reacted more quickly than I should have," I said.
"Apology accepted," she said. "I am going to start touching you again."
"Good," I said. I tried a smile. It was half-hearted, but it felt good when she moved closer and brushed a hair from my face.
"So you're not scared off that I'm more than a decade older than you?"
"No," I said. "Unless you have a heart condition."
She laughed. "I do not." She paused. "One more. I own two antique cars."
I smiled. "What are they?"
"I have a 1938 MG TA," she said. "And a 1955 Austin-Healey 100M."
I sat there, unsure how to respond. "I've heard of MG and Austin-Healey," I admitted.
She chuckled. "Want to see?" I nodded immediately. "You may open your eyes." She had her phone out by the time I opened, and she punched the screen for a moment or so, then handed it to me. "That's the MG," she said. "You can swipe back and forth to see more photos of it."
I stared. It was an old fashioned car, of course, but it was painted in deep green. It was a two-seater, and I saw the steering wheel was on the wrong side for America -- it was on the right instead of the left. It was a really, really cute car.
"I love it," I said. "Do you drive it?"
"Yes, but rarely. My brother likes to borrow it and take it to car shows. He has a trailer. He says it's a chick magnet." She smiled. "I have to agree with him."
I paged through the pictures a little more before I looked up at her. "It's really cute. I'd let you meet Aphrodite if you let me sit in your car."
She laughed. She took the phone back from me, shuffled through more pictures, and handed it back. "This is the Austin-Healey. Compared to the MG, it's almost boring."
It was also a two-seat convertible, bright red, but clearly far more modern, even at over fifty years old. The steering wheel was on the wrong side as well.
"They're both imports," she said. "I drive this one a little more often than the MG."
"Chick magnet?"
She laughed. "Oh, yeah."
"What do you drive normally?"
"A BMW 5-Series Sedan," she replied.
"You really like your cars," I replied.
"I have no kids, my house was not that expensive, and I am not wasteful of my money. I spend money traveling, like you do, and on my cars. I can't take it with me, after all."
I handed the phone back and studied her. "Are you showing off?"
"A little," she admitted. "You have Aphrodite, which I think is brilliant. I have my cars."
"Aphrodite didn't cost what your cars cost."
"Perhaps not, but I wanted to show you something unique and interesting about me." She tapped the phone. "This is all I've got."
I considered her, then looked her body up and down pointedly. "Not all."
She smiled broadly. "But you've already seen that," she said. "And I didn't want to jump ahead. We're getting there though, aren't we? Or are you turned off by my profligate display of wealth?"
I thought about it. I was a little, actually, but I had to admit the cars were really cute, especially the MG. "Is that why you did it?"
"No," she said. "I told you. They're interesting."
"Chick magnets."
"Yes," she said. "Did I try too hard?"
"No. I love the
cars." I paused. "Are you staying in some five-hundred-dollar a night hotel?"
"No," she said, "but it's not a flea bag, either."
"Miranda," I said, "You don't need to impress me. You just need to be nice to me."
She smiled. "Close your eyes, Cassidy."
I closed obediently, but then I squirmed closer to her and leaned a head against her shoulder. "Is this okay?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "It's very okay." She caressed my arm for a while. "I love this outfit."
"Thank you," I said. "I wore it for you."
She laughed. "Democrat or Republican?" she asked.
"Oh, stepping it up, are we?" I asked. "Neither."
"Oh?"
"Green Party," I said. "I know, wasted vote and all that, but I like their platform."
"I do, too," she said, "but I vote Democrat."
"You with all your money?"
"Me with all my gayness," she replied. "And all my feminism. And my belief in science. And my belief that being educated is a good thing, not an excuse for scorn."
"Religion?" I asked.
"Non-practicing," she replied. "You?"
"Pastafarian," I replied, making a joke. She laughed, which told me she knew what it was.
"Seriously," she said.
"Non-practicing tending to atheist," I said. "Isn't that what I said?"
She chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it was. Is this how you always dress?"
"Hell no," I said. Then I remembered she didn't like crude language. "I'm sorry!" I blurted. "I'm sorry!"
"Shh," she said, pressing fingers over my lips. "If we had a relationship, I would ask if you wanted help breaking that habit."
"Does it really bother you?"
"That didn't," she replied. "But I find profanity to be a crutch. I'd make you work harder to find more pleasing ways to express yourself."
"I'm not a potty mouth," I said.
"No, you're not," she replied. "But you could do better, couldn't you?"
I thought about it and nodded.
"How do you normally dress?"
"Jeans and a blouse," I replied. "Well, day-to-day."
"At work?"
"It's pretty casual."
She didn't respond to that.
"Is that wrong?" I asked after a moment.
"Does your job require you to crawl around on the floor?"
I had the image of me crawling around on the floor at her feet and began blushing. It was perhaps too dim for her to see, but I didn't respond right away.
"You said you're in I.T.," she added. "You didn't specify what. Maybe you run cables all over the office or something."
"Oh," I said. "That's what you meant. We have technicians for that, but I've done that in the past." I paused. "You'd make me dress up, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, unless it would interfere with your job."
"I could keep a change of clothes at work for the rare time I need to be grubby," I said. I snuggled more tightly against her side, clutching her arm. She felt good. "My turn?" I asked.
"All right," she said. "Ask."
"When was your last meaningful relationship?"
"I will interpret that to mean with a girlfriend," she said. "I've had a few semi-meaningful relationships more recently, but the last live-together relationship was five years ago. We were together for three years."
"Are you willing to keep going?" I asked.
"Rule one of dating: do not talk about your ex."
"Are you willing to keep going?" I repeated.
She chuckled. "Her name is Karen."
"Is she submissive."
"Yes."
"Full time?" I asked.
"Yes. Deeply submissive."
"Is that what you liked about her?"
"I liked that she was brilliant and funny," Miranda replied. "I didn't like that she was damaged."
"Damaged?"
"She'd had a domineering father."
"Abusive?"
"Not physically. But emotionally."
"Is she a lot younger than you?"
"Six years. But don't take that as indication of a trend. I don't tend to date older than I am, but I don't date them much younger than you are, either."
"Was it a good relationship?"
"I spent a lot of time managing her self-esteem. I didn't mind. She was worth it."
"Hmm. That answer was evasive," I observed. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."
She paused. "You're right," she said. "There's no reason to be evasive. It was, by and large, a good relationship in many ways. We were largely compatible. But I'm not sure it was entirely a healthy relationship for her."
"I think you should explain that," I said quietly.
"She was looking for something from me that I don't believe is healthy."
"A father?"
"Yes, I think so. She would purposely set herself up to need to be protected from her own choices, and it wasn't because she was too stupid to think her decisions through."
"Did she want to be punished?"
"I think they were cries for attention."
"Did she need to make those cries to receive your attention?"
"She needed more from me than I believe is healthy." Miranda paused. "I don't want to bad-mouth her."
"Just tell me."
"She was damaged, Cassidy. And she wasn't doing anything to fix herself. She wasn't doing anything to learn to stand on her own two feet. You stand on your two feet. Do you see the difference?"
I nodded. "Yes. That makes sense. Is that why it ended?"
"It ended because she cheated," Miranda said. "She cheated because I neglected her."
"That's no excuse," I replied. "How bad was the neglect?"
"No, it's not. Things were difficult at work. I was coming home stressed out and not ready for big, fantastic scenes every night. I wanted pampering. I didn't want to go to dinner every night."
"Were you coming home late?"
"Sixish, but perhaps I'd bring work home two or three nights a week."
"And the other nights."
"I was home," she said. "I just wasn't as involved. I was tired. I was stressed. I couldn't be her father for her, not the way she wanted. So she began acting out, culminating in sleeping with an old lover. The lover, I'll point out, who once beat her up."
I sighed.
"Yeah. I felt horrible. I thought it was all my fault."
"It wasn't."
"Some of it was. But I couldn't be what she needed."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, me too," Miranda said. "My turn."
"All right."
"Playful one," she said. "Craziest thing you've ever done."
"That's probably a bad relationship question," I said. "Do you want something different?"
"Yes, if you have one."
"I hitchhiked to California once, a long time ago. Nothing bad happened, but it was probably about the stupidest thing I've ever done. I had a blast."
She laughed. "I sold a house to buy the Austin-Healey."
"What?"
She laughed again. "I had enough equity in the house to do it, and I didn't actually like the house that much. So I sold the house and bought a new one with a minimum down payment, and I used the rest of the cash to buy the car. Seventeen years ago. I've become a little more conservative since."
"Yes, I see the conservative way you dress," I said, and she laughed again. "How about the MG?"
"Eight years ago," she said.
I thought about it. "You said you built your house eight years ago."
"I had stock options where I worked. We were sold. I made enough to pay the taxes, buy the car, and by selling the old house, I had enough for twenty percent down on the new one, leaving me with a mortgage only slightly larger than the old one. My current Beamer is six years old, and I haven't made any other extravagant purchases since."
"My turn," I said. "What color are my eyes?"
She roared with laughter. "Hazel."
"You
could see in this light?"
"Yes. Mine?"
"Soulful brown," I replied.
We talked for another half an hour, trading questions back and forth. I hadn't had so much fun in a long time, and I finally told her that.
"Me, either," she agreed. "Want to step it up?"
"Yes."
"Kinkiest thing you've ever done."
"Oh, go- um. Golly."
"Stop," she said. "You can do better than that."
"You're asking me about the kinkiest thing I've done, but you don't want me to use an explanation of surprise?"
"I don't want you to use profanity or a lazy way around profanity."
"Golly?"
"I believed it derived from 'Oh, God, much the same way 'heck' is from 'hell'."
"All right. Um. Crikey."
"I'm not sure, but that's probably derived from 'Oh Christ'."
"Wow?"
"Okay. But sort of lame. Come on. Exercise that intellect."
I thought about. "Mercy me, Miranda," I said finally.
She leaned over and kissed my forehead. "Good," she said. "Two more."
"Oh, my," I said.
"One more."
"Oh, dear me," I came up with after several seconds.
I received another kiss on my forehead. "Kinkiest thing you've ever done."
"Mercy me, Miranda," I said, grinning at her. "I've done some pretty stupid stuff, and I've been stupid about letting women do things to me."
"Kinky doesn't need to be stupid, Cassidy."
"Maybe not, but when we get into the realm of kinkiest, they are one and the same. For me, anyway." I paused.
"Cassidy," she said, "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to tell me. We're just getting to know each other."
"How about kinkiest thing I can think of that I'd do again."
She laughed. "Perfect."
"This one wasn't my idea, and I was deeply embarrassed."
"But you did it, and you'd do it again."
"Yes. I lost a wager."
"Seems tame so far."
"She was a fairly casual girlfriend," I said. "If I won, she'd spend the weekend convincing me to be her sex slave for a week."
Miranda chuckled. "But you lost."
"I had to be her sex slave without the weekend," I said. "And she made me serve for three parties she had."
"Serve?"
"Not that way," I said. "Um. Waitress and things like that. No one was allowed to touch me, and she didn't even touch me in front of anyone."