Chapter 3: A Technical Matter

Once again, it was a Monday morning, 9:45 AM and the bell had just rung to start the class. And, once again, my stomach was in knots wondering about what was to happen in the next forty-five minutes. Mrs. Ball moved to the front of the class, and called the room to order. She reached into her briefcase and took out the collection of stories, placing them in a pile on her desk.

"This exercise was about the interaction between two people, mainly in the form of a dialogue, but not limited to that. I didn't tell you to simply craft a conversation, although some of you did that. How you structured the interaction was up to you. Remember that a dialogue needn't consist solely of spoken words. It can involve looks, expressions, and gestures."

She picked up the pile of papers. "In my hand, I actually hold examples of all of those. Some, obviously, were better than others. One of these stories consisted solely of gestures and looks, with not a word being spoken, but it was still very much a detailed interaction between two people. One of these was a wonderful love story, although it began as sort of a kidnapping. Quite frankly, it made me cry at the end because of the love between the two main characters."

My throat suddenly clenched as she spoke; I was positive that she was talking about my story. Her eyes caught mine very quickly as she spoke, but they didn't linger, and I didn't see her react to my look. She picked up the bundle of papers and started walking around the room distributing them.

"There are still a number of you who seem to have difficulty constructing dialogue. The best advice I can give you is to read it over after you've written it. If necessary, read it out loud, and see if it sounds natural. See if it sounds like the kind of conversation that your characters would have. If not, then there's a problem with it."

She pulled one paper from the pile and held it up. "I'm going to read you an example of a well-constructed dialogue. Interestingly, this one is between two people of wildly different cultures, with completely different backgrounds, but you can feel their personalities clashing, and the differences in their ideals. I am not going to say which of you wrote this, since I don't want to cause any embarrassment to anyone."

She began reading, and the blood drained from my face; it was a scene from my story. It was the first meeting between the Princess and the Pirate. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed my reaction, but all eyes seemed to be on her. What did surprise me was the number of girls in the class who seemed to be enthralled by what they were hearing.

When Mrs. Ball finished reading, there was silence for a moment. She looked around, then said, "In this particular story, what you've heard is the interaction between the two main characters at the time of their first meeting. As you can tell, they do not like each other very much. By the end of the story, they are very much like Romeo and Juliet—lovers from different backgrounds, destined to not be together." There was a gasp from one side of the room, and I noticed one of the girls with a hand over her mouth and a tear rolling down her face. Mrs. Ball looked over at her and realized what she had implied with the reference to Shakespeare. "Oh ... they don't die. No, they just end up back in their own worlds and not together. However, it was still very sad at the end."

"Is that the story that made you cry?"

"Yes, it was."

"Who wrote it?" This from one of the other girls.

"That I'm not going to tell you. You can share your stories with each other, but I am not going to single out anyone. If I do read a passage from a story, it will be in a way that hides the identity of the author."

I was deathly afraid that she would slip up and deliver my story to me next, but she had shuffled it back into the pile, and it was a minute or two before she stood in front of me with my story in her hand. Our eyes did lock this time, and I definitely saw a tremor go through her as she put the paper down on my desk. I wanted to touch her, to take her hand, or to stand and wrap my arms around her. I stayed frozen in place, moving only my eyes as she studied me through hers.

When she left it wasn't a quick manoeuvre; she didn't simply spin in place to seek out her next delivery target. Instead, she slowly stepped backwards, her eyes never leaving my face until she bumped into another desk behind her. The spell broken, she finally turned and headed across the room. Before I turned over my paper, I looked around the room to see if anyone else had noticed what had happened. I saw one set of eyes watching me closely, and they narrowed when our gazes met. I saw the owner of the eyes purse her lips in thought as she looked first at me, then at Mrs. Ball. Her attention was diverted a second later as Mrs. Ball spoke from across the room.

With attention once again focused on Mrs. Ball, I felt it was safe to turn my paper over, and see what comments she might have left. On the cover was a large A+, circled in red. Beneath it she had written, 'A wonderful love story. Both funny and emotional, and your dialogue was excellent. I really felt the personalities of the characters. The rest of it was somewhat more descriptive than I would have expected, but it was very well written.'

I quickly flipped through the rest of the pages, looking for additional comments. I noticed that she had underlined one or two uses of the 'Princess of Fire' title, and there were some odd random marks from her pen in the shaving scene, and the scene of the Princess being tormented. On the last page there were a couple of rough spots in the paper, and I recalled her comment that she had cried at the end of the story. Were these her tears on the paper?

If they were, then it was obvious that she had grasped the central theme of the story, and her comment about the rest being 'more descriptive' certainly seemed to indicate that she had accepted the sexual aspect. While she had been emotionally affected by the romance, I had no idea how she had felt about the rest of it. I doubted that I would ever find out; was it my destiny to craft unrequited sexual fantasies about Mrs. Ball?

Someone near me asked a question, and I realized that I had not been following the discussion. I did my best to pick up what was going on, and realized that she had begun speaking about technical writing, likely in preparation for our next assignment.

"The primary difference between technical writing and creative writing is like the difference between a documentary movie and one meant for entertainment. A technical document informs the reader, much as a documentary movie does. The document will describe a process, or an object, or it will attempt to teach the reader some skill. For example, the document can describe a car, or how its engine functions, or it can attempt to teach the reader how to disassemble and repair the engine in the car.

"The idea here is not to try to excite the imagination of the reader, but how to impart specific knowledge in a clear and concise manner. This means that there will be no dialogue. Neither will there likely be any use of metaphor, nor of a lot of adjectives. Your goal is to explain, or to teach. Explain why a soufflé rises, or teach me how to make the perfect soufflé.

"Obviously, you are not limited to topics of cooking. Find a topic, present it appropriately and check your facts. In this type of writing facts are important, and I will expect you to have done the necessary research to back up what you write. Once again, the assignment is due on Friday, but I doubt my weekend's reading will be anywhere near as interesting as the one I just spent."

A ripple of laughter went through the room, and I started to think about story topics just as the bell rang. As I stood by my seat, waiting for the aisle to clear, I sensed a presence beside me. It was Debbie Wilson, the girl whom I had seen watching me after Mrs. Ball had returned my paper.

I turned my head to look at her. "That was your story she read from, wasn't it?"

"Huh?"

"It looked to me like there was something going on between you two. What's the deal?"

"No, it wasn't my story." I was moving along the aisle toward the front of the room, and looked away from her. Just then, the crowd in front of me moved, and I was face to face with Mrs. Ball. She looked like she was going to say something to me, then I saw her eyes flick past me to Debbie, and her lips tightened.

Debbie didn't say anything more as we left the room, but in the hall she grabbed my arm. "What's going on? I saw the way you looked at each other."

"I don't know what you think you saw, but there's nothing going on. For Christ's sake, she's a teacher! What would there be between us?"

"I think you're lying, if nothing else about that story not being yours. I think that was your story she read."

"Well, it wasn't. And anything you think you saw could have just been her remembering how that story made her feel. She said it made her cry; maybe she was thinking about it while she was passing out the rest of the stories."

She looked steadily at me for a few more seconds. "Show me your story—prove it wasn't yours."

"Nope. No way. I'm not showing it to anyone, 'cause I can just bet that you'll end up telling everyone what I wrote, and I don't need the aggravation."

I started to turn away, and she grabbed my arm again. "I wouldn't do that ... really."

I looked at the hand on my arm, then into her eyes. She moved the hand, but held the look. I said, "I don't believe you, and you know why. You've pulled this kind of stuff before, and I'm not interested in a repeat." I turned away again, and over my shoulder said, "I've got to get to class."

That night I stared at the blank screen of my laptop, reliving the moments when Mrs. Ball read part of my paper, and when she had been right in front of me handing it back. Somehow, my stories were bringing us together, but I wasn't sure how, and I had no idea what either one of us would do if ever we were alone together. The idea both filled me with longing, and scared the hell out of me.

I didn't know enough about women to understand what I was feeling, so I started searching the Web for information. I read medical information, and romantic stories, and commentary by people like Masters and Johnson, and I found an on-line copy of 'The Joy of Sex'. I tore through that in no time, amazed by its content, and by how much it explained. It taught me how a woman's body works, and how two people can sexually excite each other, and different ways to cause an orgasm.

While some of it was written in rather clinical and technical language, most of it was done in a fairly light style, and was almost more like a folksy story than a manual on how to have and enjoy sex. I was deep in the middle of a passage describing masturbation techniques when it hit me that I could provide similar advice, but in a much more technical approach. I could describe some sexual act, couched as technical documentation, and therefore fulfilling the requirements of the assignment Mrs. Ball had just given us.

I started drafting notes, and scribbling ideas for what to include, or exclude. My mind kept wandering to visions of Mrs. Ball, imagining it was her in the illustrations in the book. I kept seeing her, nude before me, my hands and lips travelling over her body, my goal to see her writhing in orgasm, over and over again. I started to write, seeing only her image in front of me, describing how I would make love to her using only my lips and tongue, wondering how she would taste, wondering about the feel of her sex under my tongue.

On the Creation of an Orgasm

Truly, an orgasm is a wonderful and mysterious thing. It has no real purpose in nature, other than to deliver a massive dose of pleasure to the recipient. It isn't actually needed for procreation, as sperm can be mixed with an egg without the need of an orgasm for either partner. This happens every day in fertilization laboratories. Pregnancies often result even when neither partner claims to have had an orgasm.

An orgasm is defined, somewhat clinically, as 'the highest point of sexual excitement, marked by strong feelings of pleasure and marked normally by ejaculation of semen by the male and by vaginal contractions within the female.'

In the male, the orgasm does serve to expel quantities of sperm from the body with great force, often to a distance of several feet. In the female, the head of the cervix has been witnessed to extend to touch the vaginal floor, theoretically dipping it into the pool of ejaculate that would have been deposited there by the male. This action would increase the chance of a large number of sperm actually penetrating into the womb, thus also increasing the likelihood of successful fertilization of an egg.

But ... how then does one actually provide an orgasm; how does one construct one? We shall explore the art of the orgasm as provided via oral means for the most part; there will be only limited contact with the hands and fingers of the lover, mainly the lips and tongue, and for him, the inside of the mouth.

In both the male and female of the human species, anticipation is often much of the orgasm itself. It is the knowledge that stimulation of a sort is being visited upon the body, and that the continuation of that stimulation will lead to the sweet state that is the orgasm.

For Her

For her, the anticipation typically begins when her lover's lips move from her face to other places on her body. Often, those other places are simply her breasts, but not all women have sensitive breasts. For some, the time spent by a lover on her breasts is simply a distraction. Many women consider manipulation of their breasts to be distasteful, bringing back to mind memories of adolescent boys groping at these wondrous new things that most attract the male eye.

When her lover's lips move beyond her breasts, and descend across her abdomen, a woman can truly anticipate that those lips will move to her most sensitive places, and begin the process of bringing her to orgasm. The pelvic area of a woman's body contains a singularly important bundle of nerve endings, namely the clitoris—the most sensitive location on a woman's body, and the seat of her pleasure.

Ironically, though the clitoris is the most important sensory organ for the delivery of an orgasm to a woman, it is also hidden beneath a flap of tissue, the so-called 'clitoral hood'. To fully stimulate it, one must first coax it out from under its hood, but the clitoris, like other appendages, varies in size and sensitivity among women. For some women, it is very tiny; for others, it can be quite large. Obviously, the larger and easier it is to find, the more likely that a sexual partner will be able to stimulate it to the point of orgasm.

The closer her lover's lips move to her sexual centre, the greater the likelihood that those lips will find her clitoris, and softly caress it until she reaches her peak. For variety, her lover may choose not to arrive at her core via her breasts and abdomen, but instead to trek northwards, as it were, by starting with her knees, or even her feet. Soft kisses and firm nibbles along the inner sides of the calves and thighs can be as sensual as the same caresses applied to the flesh of her abdomen.

Upon arrival at her vulva, whether from the north or the south, her lover's lips will kiss the lips of her sex, lightly at first, then more firmly as her arousal builds. As those lower lips engorge and flower out, the lover's mouth should nibble along their length, tugging lightly to stimulate them, and to assist them to open further. As her arousal climbs, the lips will fill with blood, and soften with her secretions, becoming more fragrant, and bringing forth her true flavour.

The flowering of her labia can be said to be the same as the spreading of the petals of a flower. The latter occurs to entice the bee to explore further and carry away more pollen, while the former is an invitation to her lover to feast upon the slippery delights, and explore every tender fold with an inquisitive tongue. At the apex of those folds is the pinnacle of pleasure for her, namely the hidden point of the clitoris.

It is important for her lover to not directly stimulate the clitoris too early, as the little organ is too sensitive for that. Indeed, a direct attack will often feel to the woman as if someone is rubbing sandpaper over the clitoris, and the overload of sensation will turn painful. Subtlety is called for when dealing with this little nubbin, and gentle pressure is the most that should be used, at least in the early moments.