Chapter 2

Rita showed up at my door on Friday evening as I was watching television. I was surprised as I figured that on the first night of the weekend she would be out with her intended or at least with her friends. Personally, I disliked the bar scene and if I hadn't actually arranged a date to go out somewhere fun on Friday night, I stayed home.

"Hi Doc," she greeted me at the door. "Are you busy tonight? Can we talk some more?"

"I said anytime, Rita," I answered letting her into the house. "Why aren't you out tonight?"

"Because I suck," she said flatly. "I'm apparently just no good at it." She laughed nervously and I switched off the TV. I had opened a bottle of wine that was sitting on the coffee table and didn't bother to ask her if she wanted any. I just poured her a glass and we sat companionably on the sofa for a few minutes before she started in.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she said finally. "I tried flirting with a couple of guys at work this week, and discovered I couldn't tell if they were interested in me or just responding to the archetypal stimuli, as you so aptly put it. They both hit on me and I discovered that I just wasn't interested in them that much."

"That should be a good sign," I said. "You respond to archetypal stimuli as well. They just happen to be different than the ones a man responds to. If you can distinguish the difference between a moistening between your legs and a genuine interest in a guy, that's a step in the right direction." She squirmed on the couch a little bit and adjusted her position.

"I've been thinking about what you said the other day," Rita said.

"Good," I answered. "I'm glad you are learning to..."

"Not about that," she broke in. "Well, partially about that. But more about what you said about being willing if I wanted to turn you on." I caught my breath. Subtlety is not a trait of the young. Either she was going to attempt to seduce me or she was going to ream me for being an old pervert. While I admit to the latter, I was counting on the former.

"I realized that I don't know how," she continued. "Would you teach me ... show me how to do it? I mean, how to turn you on?" There it was, out in the open.

"Do you want to turn me on?" I asked gently. This was going to take a lot of will-power to resist the rush.

"I want to learn how to turn you on," she answered. "And I'd much rather learn from you than randomly experiment with guys that I don't even like. I like you. I'd like to turn you on." I poured us each another glass of wine and we sipped, and then turned toward each other. I nodded.

"I told you I'd be a willing participant," I said. "I'm not going to back out now that you've expressed an interest. But let's start from the beginning. We'll set up a little play-acting to get started." I stood and moved to the wet bar in the den and sat on a stool. "You've seen me and you're interested. It appears that I might be interested, too. What do you do?"

"Well, I guess I start flirting," she answered.

"Don't tell me. Show me."

She looked over the back of the sofa at me sitting at the bar. I glanced in her direction and our eyes made contact. She shifted herself to make her breasts more prominent and made a little kissy noise in my direction. I laughed.

"What?" she demanded.

"I'm not a dog," I said. "I don't come when you make a kissy noise. I'm not saying that most guys won't, but it won't be what you want. It just tells me that you are hot to trot and I happen to be alone and available. See, there is no connection."

"See. I told you I suck," she moaned.

"No, you just haven't had practice engaging," I said. "There's nothing wrong with the things you were doing—they just happen to be a little premature. First of all, try just holding eye contact for a while. See what comes of that. Think about the kinds of things you've seen in movies, or scenes you've fantasized about." I resumed my pose at the bar and glanced toward her. It was perfectly timed as she seemed to glance at me at the same time. She dropped her eyes slightly and then raised them to look directly into mine. A slow smile spread across her lips as we looked at each other. She seemed to glance away and then back at me. Then she winked. I winked back.

I was suspicious that I was being played. Those moves were smooth and well-practiced. I could feel a stirring already. She started to giggle.

"That feels so silly," she said.

"Why?" I asked. "You did it extremely well."

"It was embarrassing," she confessed. "I couldn't keep a straight face. It was so..." She faltered as realization fell across her face. " ... intimate," she breathed. I was relieved that this was coming spontaneously and no longer felt that I was receiving a practiced performance.

"Finding a point of intimacy is a key stage in seduction, or turning someone on," I said. "It makes you co-conspirators. You are in it together now."

"I liked it," Rita sighed. "I felt something."

"So follow it up," I answered. "What comes next? You've established a connection, I've acknowledged it. Where do we go from here?"

"I come and join you?" she asked.

"No," I answered. "Invite me to you. That makes it clear that I haven't misunderstood. Again, no summoning like a dog or patting the seat next to you like you want me to jump up. Think of a way to invite me without using words." She thought about it for a few moments and then resumed her position. I leaned against the bar and glanced back at her. Her eyes were there to meet mine and this time they held. The smile crept across her lips again and I seriously thought about kissing them. She reached for her wineglass and took a sip, then looked into it as if considering. Then she tilted her head slightly, looked me in the eye, and raised her empty glass. One eyebrow came up in question and I smiled at her. I picked up the wine bottle and approached her.

"May I?" I asked, directing the bottle toward her glass. She held it out and smiled warmly at me.

"Thank you," she said. "Won't you join me?" Beautiful. I sat next to her, filled my own glass and raised it to her.

"Cheers," we both said and then laughed.

We set our glasses down and I turned toward her to be met face on with her lips. She pressed them against my own demanding entrance with her tongue. It was sweet, but this wasn't going to teach her anything. Reluctantly, I broke away and pushed her back in her seat.

"What?" she asked. "Didn't you like it?"

"Oh yes," I said. "I liked it. And at this stage of our relationship, we could sit here on the couch and just start making out like crazy. We know each other pretty well, and we both know why we're here. But if you did that to a guy you just met or knew only casually, he'd be headed for the door or for your panties in a heartbeat. You want the tension to grow. You don't just want me to have a hard-on; you want me to ache for you."

"I'm sorry, but after that little invitation and getting you over here, I was just feeling so horny that I lost control."

"Nothing wrong with feeling horny. In fact, it is a good indication that what you are doing is working," I said. "If you are getting turned on, chances are I am, too." She took another sip of her wine and then looked at me with puppy-dog eyes that begged to be taken and taught.

"So what should I do?" she asked.

"Well, we'd be talking once we got to the table," I said, "just like we have been. Maybe we'd have to get acquainted a little."

"Like asking you what you do for a living?" she asked.

"No," I said. "Guys get nervous when a girl asks that kind of question. It tells them that you are looking for someone who has enough money to afford you. And believe me, unless he's an arrogant fool, no man will think he can afford you. That's why people developed the lame introductions they use like 'What sign are you?' It a subject to talk about without being too personal. Unfortunately, it doesn't reveal anything about the person. You get no further than where you start. What you need are questions that get a good conversation rolling without sounding lame. I'll start this time."

We settled in facing each other on the sofa and she waited expectantly.

"That's a beautiful locket you're wearing," I said, looking at her neck. She reflexively lifted her chin a fraction so I could see it better. "May I?" I asked, extending my hand. She nodded her assent and I lifted the locket letting my finger rest against the base of her throat lightly as I examined the locket. "It must be from someone very special," I finished, laying the locket gently back against her throat and sliding my finger out from under her. She shuddered a little as I withdrew. This time, however, she took the hint.

"My daddy gave it to me on my 16th birthday," she said. It had a picture of him and me in it when he gave it to me." She lifted the locket and popped it open. "He doesn't know I replaced my picture with my mom's. It's not like I want them to get back together or anything. I've outgrown that. It's more like it's the two of them that made me. So I carry around a bit of each of them."

"They sound like wonderful people," I said truthfully. "Looking at them, it's no wonder you are so beautiful." She reddened just a little and from this distance I could see that the flush extended down her throat and onto her chest.

"Do you have family that you are close to?" she asked.

"Two older brothers who used to beat the tar out of me when I was a kid. My folks have been gone years," I said, surprising myself that I was talking about my family to her. "My brothers have their own families. I like being with the kids because I can spoil them and then give them back to their parents. It's a just reward for the way they treated me as a child." We laughed.

"I've always thought having kids would be fun," she said, "but raising them would be hell. I think I'll leave the breeding to my sister."

"There is something cool about being the favorite aunt or uncle," I said. "Do you like art?"

"Yeah," she responded. "What's the old saying? I don't know art, but I know what I like. Do you know a lot about art?"

"A fair amount," I admitted. I'd never really told my neighbors much about being an artist. Well, there were a couple, but most knew me as a real estate agent. "I studied art in college—still dabble in it a little."

"Really?" she asked, surprised. "I didn't know that. Do you paint?"

"Yes," I said. "Paint and draw. Sculpt a little. I like to get my hands in the clay and feel the shape and texture of the object."

"Do artists see things differently than other people?" she asked.

"That's hard to say," I answered. "Remember the grapefruit?" She laughed and nodded. "Well, we see the same thing you do, but we think about it differently. We think in terms of light and color, texture and chiaroscuro. It's like seeing something from every angle at once."

"How do you see me?" she asked. There was an innocence and shyness about the question that let me know that she genuinely wanted to see herself through my eyes. Well, she had certainly found the right means of turning me on. I've fallen in love with every model I've ever drawn.

"Why don't I sketch you," I said.

"Here? Now?" she asked, startled.

"I'll do it with words. There are lots of different kinds of medium for art."

"Okay," she said. "How do you want me to pose?" She giggled a little, thinking she was making a joke.

"First," I said, "I just spend some time looking at you. I want to really see you. It's easy to get lost in your eyes, but I want to see all of you, from every angle." I heard a little catch in her breath at the implication, but she didn't move. True to what I was saying, I took the opportunity to drink her in. I reached out and touched her hair, pulled back in a ponytail hanging down over one shoulder. When I grazed her cheek she involuntarily leaned in toward my fingers.

"I want to know the shape of your hairline and texture of your hair. I look deeply at the softness of your skin and imagine what it would feel like under my fingers' caress. I look at the shape of your face, the elegance of your neck. I want to know the breadth of your shoulders. I pause for a moment just to watch your breasts rise and fall with your breathing. I guide your face with my fingers so that your eyes can look just over my left shoulder and tilt your head slightly to emphasize your jaw-line.