All right, Angie, Ella, Steve: you wanted me to come around to identifying my authentic inclinations and admit to them and embrace them and I’ve done so. Enough of this prelude—please allow me to detail the latest example of the unfailing accuracy of my maniacal-minx radar. Obviously, there will be a major difference between this account and my former ones: instead of wondering what’s wrong with me when it comes to my taste in females, I’ll be celebrating what’s right. It’s about time I wholeheartedly revel in my preference for volatile girls, instead of counter-productively seeking to deny its existence.
* * * * * * * * * *
What’s in a name? Tallulah’s the very picture of her name: a perfect oval of a cute-as-a-button face, clear and radiant snow-white complexion, wide lively blue eyes, a rippling river of abundant raven black hair spilling halfway down her back. Petite (of course), invested with an aura of vivacious grace (naturally), a sweet melodious little girl voice (how could it be otherwise?), twenty-seven years of age (and doesn’t look a day older than high school graduation: sure darlings of nature with a plentitude of life-fire in their veins, the hellcats always beguile time and look far younger than they are). I mentioned Tallulah’s eyes: often a look of dreamy distance is in them but then, quick as a wisp of wind, they’ll flash with razor-sharp perceptiveness and be startlingly close; often a look of ineffable sweetness is in them but then, sudden as the snap of a twig, they’ll become diamond-hard and back me up against the very air. Her visage generally wears an aspect best described as alert serenity, but shadows of impatience and discontent are always lurking, fleetingly swirling, just below the surface of her soft-as-down skin. Cute? I mentioned that—of course Tallulah’s cute. She’s absolutely stunning, beautiful as only a handful of girls are: it’s as if her beauty toys with the very light, bends it into energy that goes straight to my gut and shoots up my spine and delightfully dizzies my thoughts. And every inch of her body’s fit and toned, muscular without being angular. Tallulah’s curves are as flawless as those of a crystal wine glass, velvety as the petals of a rose. She’s a dancer, incidentally: it seems I can’t get enough of them either.
Tallulah: do you remember the name? The girl I’m writing of is the identical Tallulah who I wrongfully and shamefully gave the gate last spring, being grossly mistaken as to what best suited my happiness and unpardonably blind as to how wonderful she is. I now see her in fresh, far more appreciative and enlightened, light. I’m being given a second opportunity to do right by her, although I most certainly don’t deserve it—which just goes to show how generous-spirited hellcats can be. They give freely of themselves, hold nothing back—they neither lie nor play manipulation games, are always forthright concerning what they want and what they expect of me; far from seeking to suppress my personality, they enable me to become fully aware of it. They’re extreme in everything, including having a great capacity for forgiveness and selfless affection. It’s not malice that causes the hellcats to storm like the darkest clouds in the sky but the pyrotechnics of beautifully complex and multi-layered personalities—I see that clearly now, and it’s about time. They’ve always been good girls at heart, eager to be loving and supportive. But I’m getting ahead of myself—please allow me to detail the manner in which Tallulah and I met for the second time.
First let me point out that Tallulah’s allowed her hair to grow and changed its color to black: perhaps you also recall she was a blond a year ago. So when I saw her at the Met during intermission three Fridays ago I didn’t recognize her, not only due to the hair alteration but because she was wearing oversized sunglasses, a scarlet feather boa that concealed half her face, and a liberal amount of showgirl-type makeup. Am I an idiot for failing to recognize her from across the room, after an interval of nearly a year?—I don’t think so. Girls have the advantage over us men in that respect: it’s perfectly acceptable for them to alter their hair and makeup and accessorize to the extent they’re essentially wearing disguises, whereas we generally always look the same and can be easily identified. But I honed in on Tallulah’s special energy, as if she inhabited a plane of existence where emotions are more vividly felt and more emphatically acted upon, immediately—on her poise-perfect stance, fluid and elegant gesticulations, electric vivacity. She was animatedly chatting with a couple girlfriends, accompanying her speech with a veritable ballet of hand-movements—twirling them at the wrists, curling and uncurling her fingers, frequently flicking the boa’s feathers and her long black locks. The giggling pings of her intonation distinguished themselves from the other voices and could be heard from across the room but still weren’t clear enough to jar my recollection—I was far from being able to discern the whole of her voice, much less make out her words. She was also wearing a mid-thigh-high black leather skirt and pink cashmere sweater—both very snug, allowing me to do an accurate appraisal of her flawlessly proportioned figure, so slender and well-exercised and supple. I was doing what I always do when sighting a girl I want to get to know: lingeringly looking her up and down, caressing her contours and seeking to delve under her skin with my eyes, such that she can feel me doing it.
There’s an art to looking at a girl and alerting her to one’s presence and sparking her interest: one must convey both respect and insistence, infuse one’s admiration with desire, but always must the former be the greater of the two; by the same token, one must never plead with a glance or assume a girl’s obligated to respond—bright girls detest sentimental slop and presumption alike. Glances of attraction cut through the air quicker than the wind and communicate far more than words do and must be managed with care, and... But why analyze? Suffice to say I observe Tallulah in such a manner that she soon becomes aware of it and turns towards me with a quizzical look, whereupon I greet her with smiling eyes. But her response is different from what I’m accustomed to. Instead of demurely down-turning her eyes, or glancing slightly to the side with a hint of a coy smile hovering about her lips, or dreamily fiddling with her hair as she tilts her head, or sending other vaguely encouraging, deliberately subtle and noncommittal, flirtatious signals, she stares at me with extreme emphasis (something I easily detect despite her sunglasses) and starts as if confronted by a ghost, instantly rigid in every muscle. Likewise does she abruptly fall silent, cease conversing with her girlfriends, such that her hands freeze in mid-gesticulation—the change is so obvious her girlfriends wonder what’s overcome her, one of them grasping her shoulder with a look of concern. But then Tallulah quickly collects herself and, turning to the girl who’s clasping her shoulder, smilingly dispenses what I easily detect are reassuring words. No sooner am I certain our from-across-the-room communication has ended and nothing’s going to come of it than Tallulah turns to face me again and, with an elaborate flourish of her hands, seizes the hem of her skirt and curtsies, laughing as she does so. That’s definitely a first and, for a few moments, I’m not sure if she’s making fun of me or not, or simply a performer acting in accordance with the manner in which she’s decked out. There’s the feather boa, right?—it’s double wrapped about her throat and its ends nearly sweep the floor. There’s the makeup, right?—it’s thick and ostentatious enough to verge upon caricature but nevertheless manages to remain within the dictates of good taste, having been applied with care and expertise. And moments later she’s enthusiastically beckoning me over with both hands, not ceasing to look straight at me and smile. Maybe I am an idiot for failing to compute the evidence: this girl’s unmistakable surprise followed by an invitation to join her—perhaps it should at least occur to me she’s not unknown to me. But that’s not what’s passing through my head. Still convinced I’m dealing with a complete stranger, I’m thinking something along the lines of, Not exactly the subtle type, and noting it’s far too easy. It occurs to me she’s going to hand me a flyer to a club, or for a performance of hers; for all I know she’s a Broadway star being friendly to someone she perceives as being a well-behaved fan, her initial surprise being because she feels I’ve recognized her
despite her effort to conceal her identity. At any rate, I have little hope I’ll be getting to know this girl in the manner I’d like to: when it comes to spontaneous let’s-get-acquainted impulses, a non-subtle girl is generally a girl who’s only going to tease and flirt and idly converse, with no intention of following through, for reasons known only to herself, or ask for something that’s wholly unrelated to intimacy, or use one to inspire jealousy in another. Which isn’t to say I’m going to pass on her invitation: such would be ungentlemanly and tacky, not to mention that she’s thoroughly piqued my curiosity and I’m very interested to see what comes of it.
So I excuse myself from Don (You remember Don, right? He’s the bona fide opera maniac, for whom too much is never enough, and who attends performances every week.), who’s with me and has been observing this exchange with amusement, and cross the reception hall to greet this bold theatrical girl. No sooner do I reach her and am about to speak than she removes the sunglasses and inquires, “Guess who?” as mirth overspreads her face. I don’t need to guess who: I recognize Tallulah instantly, and to say I’m startled would be an understatement. And I may have only spent a night and a day with her but I know her well enough, and am therefore apprehensive owing to my having shut her out last spring: she’d be very capable of shamming friendliness to dupe me into dropping my guard, the better to broadside me with a barrage of harsh words, or a slap—I can’t help but inwardly flinch in anticipation of some variety of recrimination. But she giggles, “You should see your face,” steps close to me, and kisses me on the cheek. What music to my ears is her giggle, and her kiss is so gentle—her eyes aren’t lying as they look me up and down with delight. But I’m still tongue-tied, embarrassed, and wary: who wouldn’t be? And then she adds, “I see you’ve still got an eye for the cute ones!” as she blithely tilts her head back, fluffs her hair with her fingers, and nudges me with her knee.
“What can I say?” I smile, confident enough now to brush the feathers of the boa from one of her cheeks and kiss her in turn. “Some girls stand out in any crowd and make the others invisible. Some girls scream for attention, simply by being their gorgeous selves, and are flat-out impossible not to admire.”
“Well, it’s nice that you eye-raped me without knowing who I am,” she laughs, softly clapping a couple times while holding the sunglasses between two fingers by one of the bows. “Attracted once, attracted twice, as they say. Or does anyone say that? Maybe I just made it up!” And she kisses me again, giggling some more.
“The saying’s all yours,” I return. “I can assure you I’ve never heard it before, or approached a girl before without knowing I already know her.”
“Neat trick, right?” she says with glee. “It’s all in the sunglasses, they’re the key: the thing’s to hide the eyes, they’re always the main giveaway—windows to the soul will betray you every time.” Twirling the sunglasses in her hand, she bestows a most becoming look of mischief upon me.
“An excellent trick,” I agree. “Thanks for using it and surprising me so much it was like the earth traded places with the sky—a good surprise is always a treat, it’s nice to have one’s senses flipped about now and then. But I’m glad I couldn’t see my face, I’m sure I looked as silly as can be.” As I speak these words I can’t help but wonder if my eyes are betraying my persistent uneasiness and whether Tallulah’s windows-to-the-soul comment was alluding to such. The way I shut her out last spring isn’t anything to be proud of, to say the least, and I’m still finding it difficult to believe she’s going to continue to act as if it never happened.
“Not silly at all,” she says with a very charming frown. “You were so cute!”
It’s when Tallulah follows up this statement by rubbing her hand up and down my midriff and giggling some more and then thrusting herself against me, caressing my thighs with one of her hips—all done with very real abandon, every sign of being tickled to death, jumping out of her skin with happy energy—that I’m able to begin to trust and surrender to the waves of relief that have been building inside me, such that the greater part of my embarrassment’s effectively thrust into the background. “But not nearly as cute as you—not by a long shot!” I say, briefly kissing her on the lips—not once, but twice, and then thrice, a bit more lingeringly and emphatically each time. I should mention here I’m well aware girls adore it when one spontaneously multiple kisses them, assuming they’ve indicated receptivity to such. The fact that one kiss isn’t enough appeals to their vanity, as well as their pleasure. This might sound like there’s an element of calculation in the picture, but such isn’t the case: it’s simple observation based on experience, and it’s not my fault if I’m able to perceive such things while being wholeheartedly absorbed in them. I genuinely can’t help myself: kissing Tallulah, no matter how fleetingly (because these kisses probably take place in under ten seconds), is… Ha, I was going to say “sheer heaven,” but that would be too cliché, right? Well, so what? Is it my fault sheer heaven happens to fit the bill? It’s extraordinary how fast I turn inside out and tingle and sense the wealth of feeling within Tallulah, the richness and depths of her vivacity, and want far more!
“Ooooo,” she coos, squirmingly—half-dancingly—shaking herself, repeatedly flicking her hair, gazing at me excitedly and tenderly, after which she quickly bends towards the floor, opens the handbag at her feet, and drops the sunglasses inside it. Then she just as swiftly springs up straight again and, framing my face with her hands, joins her mouth to mine. It’s no light and brief and halting kiss but a drawn-out hungry kiss, as gentle and soothing as it’s insistent and uninhibited, as she takes deep breaths and shivers. Instantly I’m caressing her cheeks and neck and shoulders, grasping her waist and squeezing, pulling her tight against me; she’s wrapping her arms around my neck, running her fingers through my hair, wrapping a leg around one of mine; I’m soon grasping the thigh of the leg she’s wrapped about me, kneading the soft satin of her skin, as we continue to intertwine tongues. Just like that it happens, in the crowded reception area, as if we’re the only people in the building. How easy it is to touch her again, grasp with gusto, as if there’s been no interval of nearly a year, not to omit that I was with her for less than twenty-four hours then—not even a full day. It’s a veritable miracle, how natural and effortless it is—how there’s such warm and comforting transparency between us, as if we’ve been familiar for years. I’ve never reencountered one of my wildcats before, after running away from her, and undergone such an experience. I wouldn’t have believed such an experience possible, if it wasn’t happening. I’m as dizzy with elation as I’m amazed; I’m thrilling to the touch and ardor and sweetness of Tallulah while astounded by the wondrous unpredictability of life.
Tallulah’s girlfriends, respectfully averting their eyes and exchanging looks of surprise and amusement that I’m vaguely aware of, sensing instead of actually seeing them, withdraw to somewhere off to the left. Tallulah and I, upon reaching the end of this first outpouring of attraction, gaze at each other in appreciation, still as if there’s no one else in the building, and I for one am thoroughgoingly spellbound: I’m taking in her blue eyes, clear and pristine as the water of an alpine spring; taking in the flush and illumination of her face, easily shining through the layers of her makeup, advertising the extent to which she’s stirred with delight; taking in the sheer presence of her, radiant as the dawn on a cloudless morning at seaside, bracing as a cool breeze after being confined in an overheated office all day. Our hands reach towards one another and fingers intertwine, and suddenly we can’t stop talking, exchanging our news and catching up, again as effortlessly as if we’ve already experienced worlds together, known one another for years. The more we converse the more I’m astonished at how bright and beautiful and gracious and electric with life she is.
At the same time as we’re conversing and affirming our happiness at having met again, though, I can’t help but resume being uneasy—increasingly ashamed of myself, self-reproachful—in my b
ackground thoughts: how could I have run away from this absolutely enchanting kind-hearted girl? So what if she treated me to a stressful interval or two, given that she’s fundamentally a good person, not to mention as gorgeous as a girl could possibly be and overflowing with spirit, healing energy? I was obviously deluded, out of my mind! As we continue conversing I’m wondering how she can ignore the fact I banned her from my building, refused to answer the phone, never responded to her messages: how can she be so sweet, conciliatory and giving, after that? I’ve said before that feisty felines have selective memories, little recollection of previous events, when such suits them? Well, that cuts both ways: they may willfully blind themselves to their own misdeeds but they’ve very fair, in that they’re also willing to overlook my questionable actions. What makes me perfect? Nothing whatsoever, especially if I was misdirected and nuts enough to ditch a darling like Tallulah. In fact, I’ll venture to say there’s no lasting hope for a man who declines to give such a precious more of a chance to prove herself than I did. Angie, Ella, Steve: it’s not long before a combination of guilt and the need to clear the air overwhelms me and I blurt out, “Look, Tallulah, I’m sorry I…”
“Shsssh,” Tallulah cuts me off with gentle urgency, instantly discerning what I’m about to say, smilingly placing a finger on my lips to stop me from speaking the words. “A long time ago that was, and I’m no angel. Let’s leave it be.”
My friends, the warm and tactful manner in which Tallulah brushes aside my would-be apology, utter lack of judgment and reproach in her eyes, is the true essence of her—again I say she’s an absolute sweetheart at heart. I don’t feel I deserve such benevolence and am flat out amazed, as well as uncomfortable, still needled by shame. Sensing as much, Tallulah switches to distraction-tactics. “Like my new hair?” she inquires and, seizing it at the top of her forehead, commences tugging at it. I’m sure I’m staring wide-eyed and gape-jawed as her hair begins moving as a single unit and she peels it off her head—as an abundance of chestnut curls appears and falls about her face and cascades down her back from where they’ve been concealed under what I perceive to be a wig. “Gotcha again!” she announces mirthfully, waving the wig in my face, after which she drops it on top of her handbag and fluffs and combs out her hair with her fingers. (And I’m aware I stated that Tallulah’s hair is black in my initial description, omitted mention of the wig: such was intentional, because I wanted to spring the same surprise on the three of you that she sprang on me.)
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