The sexual life is usually enveloped in many layers, for all of us--poets, writers, artists. It is a veiled woman, half-dreamed.--Anais Nin, Little Birds.

Theirs was like a secret dance.

She tried with every little bit of charm to make him bring her to his bedroom. First it was her impish eyes and an unconscious bite of the upper lip. Then it was the way her slender fingers rested on his shoulder and arm languidly, like she would attach herself to him any moment. Finally, she begged to use the bathroom, even though there were others available in the big house.

He attempted to lead her to one of those but she was determined to enter his. She went inside without asking for permission and he hurried after her. She smiled at him, her eyes taking in the wide bed, the tall stacks of books, and the closed door which he told her was the toilet. She was in there for a long time so he sat on his bed, anxious and excited. Waiting for her to make a move. He did not want to misinterpret her actions even though he was hoping for something to happen. When she still did not come out, he began to sweat. He imagined her coming out naked. Her long black hair covering her tiny breasts and her hands cupping that delta of Venus he had so often dreamed of but never dared to actively pursue. They were friends. Good friends. This was both wrong and right at the same time.

In the middle of his ruminations, she emerged from behind the door with a naughty look on her face. He shook his head.

You were in there for a long time. I was thinking about something, she replied. What about, he asked. You. What you think about me. Us.

He opened his mouth but no sound came out. She noticed him slack-jawed but she did not pursue the topic. His mind was in turmoil. She moved to the shelves and peered at the titles of his books. In doing so, her pert bottom was in his direct line of sight. Through the thin denim shorts, he could make out her panties and something else.

He became aroused.

She continued to go through his collection. Bobbing up and down as she scanned nonfiction, thrillers, and thick dictionaries and encyclopedias. They both loved books. It was something they shared in common in the years they knew each other during college. He was taking his masters in psychology and she was a sophomore or junior.

He crossed his legs to hide his condition. He also cleared his throat rather loudly even though there was no reason to do so. He was uncomfortable, tense, and to be honest, eager to jump his friend Cathy. She was a young, beautiful Chinese girl who had just broken up with her boyfriend and insisted that she stay in my house to heal. He liked her and she seemed to reciprocate. There was no one else home. They could really make love right now. He didn’t believe she would refuse. She might even be expecting it.

Made up your mind yet, she asked suddenly. Yes. Took you long enough. I respect y- Well, start respecting me on that nice, warm bed, you moron.

He showed her lots of respect until it was dinner. And after they were full, he respected her again until she begged him to stop because she was sore and tired but incredibly happy and satisfied. She hugged him from the side, throwing a naked leg over his groin.

I am so glad you ended our friendship, she said. He grew hard again. It seems something else is glad, too. She laughed.

He kissed her on the forehead, nose, and several times on the lips. What are you doing, she mumbled through her sleepiness. Spelling out R-E-S-P-E-C-T.