It was pitch-dark as a 160th Special Operations “Night Stalker” MH-53J Pave-Low ghosted in and fast-roped three squads of special operators down to the Iraqi desert floor. I was covering the action in an AH-1E Cobra.

I was a thirty-eight-year-old CW2 Army Reserve snake-driver, called up because Saddam got greedy. It was my first real combat mission and I was excited. I had been flying the Cobra since my active service days. But until the call-up for Desert Storm, the most perilous place I’d ever invaded was the tropical island of Granada.

The AH-1E was an upgunned version of the old Vietnam era Huey Cobra. The three-barreled M197 20 mm Gatling put out 700 rounds per minute and the two M261-19 tubes under its stubby “wings” spewed gales of 2.75-inch rockets. Needless to say, my snake could deal out serious hurt.

The mission was supposed to be clandestine. At least, that’s what the people at CENTCOM had in mind. So, you’d think they would have noticed the regiment of Republican Guard parked in the drop zone. Still, as they say, military intelligence is to intelligence as military music is to music.

The Iraqis came swarming out of their bivouac like ants out of a kicked over anthill. The Night Stalker in the Chinook had guts. He saw that he’d just deposited twenty-seven snake eaters in the middle of a thousand utterly astonished Iraqis and he hurriedly landed; ramp down.

Our guys needed time to board. I bought it for them. The Cobra’s rockets and fragmentation rounds kicked up a sandstorm as they walked through the Iraqis. Their return fire felt like I was on the receiving end of a Fourth of July celebration. An RPG eventually got my tail rotor and the snake began to spin down like a sycamore seed.

I saw the Chinook lift off. But there was no way out for me. My last thought was, “Jane.”

I joined the Army because I was an unmotivated loser. I’d spent four years working to a single goal - graduation. I hadn’t thought through any next steps. A lot of kids are like that. They don’t have a clue about adult life. So, they just plod along like they’re nine years old, waiting for somebody to tell them what to do.

I chose general studies because I didn’t want the education process to get in the way of my gaming and smoking the ganja. The problem was that employers are not exactly beating down the door to hire kids with a bachelor’s degree in nothing useful.

I spent the summer after graduation hanging out with my old gang. Then my parents started asking me uncomfortable questions like, “How do you plan to support yourself?” They reinforced their message by cutting off my money supply.

My friends got tired of me sponging off them and so at the end of the summer I drifted into a recruiter’s office. I liked easy answers back then. I figured I could kick the can down the road far enough to grow up a little.

The Army was not a popular choice in the post-Vietnam era, and they were having a hard time filling their quotas. My score on the ASVAB rang the bell. So, they gave me my choice of specializations. I was a college grad and I had also gotten a ninety-seven on the Army’s Flight Aptitude Selection Test. Of course, I signed on the dotted line for Army Aviation. How cool was that??!!

The first three weeks were rough. But I was six-two and a hundred-and-ninety-pounds of hunka-hunka-burnin’ love back then. The physical part was no problem. But, the lack of sleep nearly killed me. I actually enjoyed being told what to do, usually at the top of a beefy sergeant’s lungs. I really had no alternative anyhow. So, I threw myself into becoming all I could be – to coin a phrase.

After ten weeks of Basic and six more of Warrant Officer Candidate school. I found myself at Fort Rucker. My fledgling ten months in flight training taught me a few important things. First and foremost, I discovered that I wasn’t a total waste of oxygen. I could do things that I had never guessed I could do.

That experience helped me see where I fit in. I had better than normal vision and my nerd-like obsession with technical detail made me an excellent rotary wing pilot. I knew that I was accomplishing something meaningful. And because of that, I didn’t feel like such an unmotivated loser.

Now, suddenly I had respect. I could fly a helicopter with the best. That really was the first time that I viewed myself as a worthwhile human being, and perhaps my lack of self-esteem was what had inspired my extensive assortment of bad habits.

The Army gave me a choice of airframes and there was an AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter slot open. I was top of the class, So, I grabbed it. I mean, what isn’t there to love about an aircraft that packs a multi-barrel Gatling and pods full of Hydra rockets. It took some time to get up to speed. Then I was assigned to the 229th Aviation Brigade at Fort Campbell. It was part of the 101st back then.

The senior guys called us new WOs “spots” as in, “Put my coffee in that spot, son.” But I was a genuine army aviator and I was totally full of myself. What did I know back then? I had only just turned 23.

The 1980s were a boring time to be a snake driver. My only “combat” experience was on the island of Grenada. The rest of it was practice and drill. We rehearsed every type of joint operation and of course we honed our flying skills.

I got the automatic bump up to CW-2 after a year. It took me out of my role as squadron manservant and brought me a nice increase in flight pay. I did the minimum six years and then transitioned into the reserves. I had been in for a total of seven and a half years. But those years had changed me from a boy into an almost 29-year-old man; with a basic sense of purpose. I could thank the Army for that.

More importantly, I knew how to take control of my future. I liked mentoring and leadership. College teaching seemed like the best way to live that life. It was familiar territory for me, and it paid a lot better than Army aviation. It also gave me tons of personal freedom.

I got a veteran’s-preference, fast-track doctorate in business from a little Institute on the Charles River. I had always been smart enough. But getting a degree from a place like Sloan would have been inconceivable back in my general studies days.

Still, there is nothing like self-discipline and six years of decision making in life-or-death situations to give you the confidence to succeed. The degree opened the door to my future, a junior faculty position at Wharton. I was king of the world at the ripe of old age of 33.

I had been teaching for two years and I had built up a cult amongst the students. A good looking, 35-year-old prof with a MIT pedigree and swashbuckling credentials had a unique cred with a certain type of student, both male and female.

Jane was one of those students. I first laid eyes on her in a graduate honors seminar on policy science. That was my area of alleged expertise. She was beyond perfection.

Every guy has an image of their ideal mate. It’s a compilation of experiences, tastes and desires and it’s different for every man. Sitting in front of me was a woman who ticked every one of my personal boxes.

She had a flawless, perfectly proportioned face. She was wearing an expensive and very tasteful outfit. And more pertinently she had a body that you wouldn’t imagine existed in the physical universe; only your fevered dreams.

My attraction to her was instantaneous and absolute. I wanted her in “that” way. Of course, I knew “that” way was totally out of the question.

The university had a strict “fraternization” policy and I would’ve found myself out on the street without references if anybody guessed what was going on in my mind. So, the shields slammed down, and I was a rock and an island; impervious to the threat that this unearthly beauty represented.

Unfortunately, Jane sat in my class for an hour a day three days a week. And, it was hard to breath around her, let alone interact. So, I couldn’t bring myself to call on her, even when she had a question. I know that sounds weird. But that was the effect she had on me, and it was my only way of coping.

Worse, I had to do an individual “working” session with her each month. It was an honors class and I was supposed to give every student personal feedback. I might have been a little too hard on Jane during those meetings. But it was pure agony staying intellectually detached with the erotic scent of her perfume wafting around me.

So, she and I struggled through distant conversations and outright irritation, garnished with a subtext of pure yearning. She was used to men laying themselves at her feet. And my lack of responsiveness was read as cold, arrogant, patronizing S.O.B. In return she was a total raging bitch.

The semester ended and the summer began. Jane graduated. So, she was fair game. But she was also out of my life. Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I kept telling myself that she was a canoe and I should move on. But I wasn’t kidding myself. I knew that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t at least try.

So, after a few surreptitious inquiries I found out that she lived above a watering hole near the Penn campus and that she hung out there most nights. I put on my best “older dude hanging around a college bar without trying to look too much like a pervert” duds, white linen shirt, whip cord khaki pants and an old Harris Tweed sport coat. That coat had been my comfort blanket for as long as I could remember.

Then I hopped into my Mustang and went down to the bar. Of COURSE, Jane wasn’t there. There is no comparable experience to standing around a neighborhood watering-hole while the locals check you out. I hesitated, trying to figure out where to sit.

Luckily several of my former students were at one table and they called me over. We sat under the brick arches and killed several pitchers while we discussed international market positions for emerging technologies and other fascinating topics.

Nobody but a Wharton student could be that nerdy.

It was getting late and Jane hadn’t showed. I was ready to drop four twenties in the pot when she made an appearance. Unfortunately, she was clinging to the hand of the Greek god Adonis himself.

I don’t know where she found a dude like that. He was so perfect he didn’t look real. Maybe she bought him directly off the pages of GQ?

I have always been a believer in the benefit of situational awareness, and this was a great chance to scope out the competition. The two of them made their way over to a private table in the corner. I sat back down and ordered another pitcher.

My table was full of students. It made excellent camouflage. I was only ten years older, so I blended right in. Not that I needed cover since those two were so clearly into each other that there was nobody else in the room.

Jane was doing the leaning-in, deep attentive looks, overt sexual body language and all the other little touches women use when they are spinning their web. The odd part was that I could have sworn that she would glance in my direction every once in a while.

The guy was clearly hooked. He kept grabbing her hands across the table, gazing deeply into her eyes and at one point he actually kissed her fingers. I thought to myself “this is serious”.

They seemed to be having an earnest conversation about art, or literature, or some of the other philosophical rubbish that guys spin to convince a girl of Jane’s caliber that he is the sort of sensitive fellow that she ought to spend the night with.

Jane was dressed informally for a change, in skintight jeans tucked into a pair of expensive knee-high boots, with a simple red cashmere V-neck sweater that showed off about a half foot of cleavage.

Her date was most probably a student. The dude was gracefully tall, willowy, incredibly handsome and clearly an aristocratic blue blood, none of which I was. He had on the full Ivy League regalia, topped off by topsiders and no socks for God’s sake!

Meanwhile, I sat there in the middle of all the background noise doing a damage assessment. They talked as they drank. They consumed a couple of pitchers as the evening wore on and they seemed very much in love.

She leaned across the table several times for a lingering, tongue swapping kiss and he was massaging her tightly encased upper thigh throughout the entire time.

I thought, “Did she just glance at me again?”

I was about at the end of my rope watching that show. But I knew that a stunning creature like Jane wasn’t going to be an easy catch. After an excruciating period, they got up and left; with her clutching his arm between her two magnificent breasts. Since her place was right upstairs, I was pretty sure that they wouldn’t be walking far.

There were no lights on in her apartment. But I heard loud moaning as I made my way back to where my car was parked. That dampened an already dark mood.

I was back at the same bar bright and early the next evening. Jane was there with a different guy. I saw a theme emerging. My guess was Penn football, big, muscular and ruggedly handsome, with the three-day stubble favored by all of the young studs.

It was a relief In some respects, since it meant that last night’s lover wasn’t exclusive, but Jane obviously had her pick of the campus litter. She seemed to dress for whatever accessory she had on her arm.

Tonight, it was full-out sorority babe. She was in a very short mini dress and a skintight foot wide elastic strip that was designed to serve as both bra and the only thing covering her upper body. It nicely displayed her bare, well-muscled shoulders and a foot of her toned tummy, with the little piece of jewelry attached to her belly button.

Needless to say, with those big tightly restrained tits, that particular ensemble was meant to suck the air out of the room.

She flirted outrageously with the guy and several of his friends, she bought rounds, she moved from table to table laughing and kidding around. The sole exception was my table, and the now much larger group of students that were sitting at it.

I thought that she might be avoiding us because we were animatedly nailing down the implications of information technology in third world economic development. But I got the distinct impression that it might have been because I was sitting at it. In fact, at one point I caught her looking at me and I could see irritation and even outright anger in her eyes.

Well!! In the immortal words of the great American philosopher Steven Sills, “If you can’t be with the one you love - love the one you’re with.” There was a little Jewish stunner sitting across the table who had been cutting me adoring glances from the minute I sat down. She was maybe five feet tall, had a bigger rack than Jane’s and one of those super round zaftig bodies that are built for sex.

I began to concentrate on her in the way that you do when you are homing in on a particular target for the night. She was more than happy to oblige. We got cozier as the evening got drunker.

Meanwhile Jane was across the room making a very public display of seducing the football player. She was sitting on his lap swapping open mouthed kisses. I was sure that his hand would have been under her top if it wasn’t so skintight. Instead he was massaging the bare flesh of her flat stomach.

Then, to my total astonishment she made a point of catching MY eye. Nobody else noticed. Since the entire room was watching her antics with the dude.

With a theatrical gesture, she spun cat-like off the guy’s lap, took his hand, looked seductively at ME and led him out the door by the tie; making it obvious that the ball was on the one-yard line and he was about to score. The room erupted in cheers like Penn had just won the Ivy League Championship.

I was flabbergasted. What the heck was THAT!!!

I had planned on bringing my little Jewish friend back to my place. But suddenly my heart wasn’t in it. Frankly the whole romantic pursuit thing seemed pointless and not a little bit stupid. Jane was clearly enjoying her life way too much to even consider a guy like me. So, I dropped a wad of twenties into the pot and excused myself.

The light in Jane’s room was off as I made my way up the deserted street. Then, I heard a sexual shriek from upstairs. Seriously??!! I knew that the object of my obsession was up there, getting her brains fucked out. I also knew that I wasn’t coming back to that place, ever!

I’d splurged on a GT Cobra convertible. I thought the name gave things a little symmetry. It was a nice fall evening and so I dropped the top and took a leisurely drive back to my place. I looked up as I crossed the South Bridge and the harvest moon and the Getz wailing from the superb Bose sound system provided a perfect counterpoint to the blue mood that I was in.

The landline was ringing as I got into the entrance hall. I scrambled into the kitchen without turning on any lights and bashed my hip on the counter. The stinger from that put the cherry on top of the whole ghastly evening.

I grabbed the phone and barked “WHAT!” There was total silence on the other end of the line. I said “HELLO??” a couple of times, still silence.

I hung up and started fishing around on the wall to find the light switch. The phone rang again. This time I picked it up and said frustrated, “You had better have a good reason for calling me at this hour Chuck!” Chuck was a guy I knew. He fancied drunk dialing.

A female voice said, “This isn’t Chuck.” I knew I had heard the voice before, but I couldn’t place it. So, I said as neutrally as possible, “Can I help you?”

The voice said angrily, “YES! You can stay out of the Tavern, permanently!!”

EXCUSE ME? Then it struck me. It was JANE.

I said in my most tightly controlled voice, “I beg your pardon?”

She said with rising anger in her voice, “the Tavern is my hang out and you have no right to be in it.”

I said, still keeping my voice neutral, “And what is it about my presence that upsets you?” I resisted the urge to add, “So much so that you need to fuck the male population of the University of Pennsylvania.”

She said, “Just BECAUSE it DOES and let’s LEAVE IT AT THAT!”

I wasn’t going to LEAVE IT AT THAT. That was for certain sure. I said, “What makes you think that you can dictate where I can and cannot go?”

She hung up on me.

I star 69’d her.

She answered like she was crying, “Hello?”

I started in on her. “It is obvious that you don’t like me. I don’t know what I did to deserve that, but I accept it. So, let me assure you that YOU WILL NEVER SEE ME AGAIN!!!”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line and some sniffing. She said in a small voice, “Can we talk tomorrow?”

Okay, that was promising. I said, “Of course we can. Should I pick you up? Or would you rather meet me someplace?”

She said, with a voice dripping with sarcasm, “You already know where my place is, so you can pick me up at 10 AM?”

The problem was what to do with her. She clearly wanted to just talk, so I wasn’t going to be taking her back to my place and I was pretty sure she wasn’t inviting me up to hers. But I also didn’t want to conduct a serious conversation sitting around a Starbucks.

I have many vices, but my boat is by far the most expensive. They say that you need to stand fully- dressed in a cold shower and tear up hundred-dollar bills if you want to experience the true joy of sailing. But I made good money and I had very little to spend it on.

I had been sailing on the Great Lakes since I was a kid and the bank was willing to set me up with a loan for a North American 40. I kept it in a slip at the Philadelphia Marine Center. That way I could do a little solo sailing on the Delaware any time I wanted.

It had a beautiful and roomy quarter deck that is extremely public. I hoped that would dispel any of Jane’s notions about my motives. The ambiance was also pleasant in a good clean nautical way. It was the best neutral ground I could think of and it was not far from her place.

She was standing outside when I rolled up in the Mustang. I thought, “Hmmm, Doesn’t even want me to darken her doorstep.”

She was dressed for business, not pleasure - literally. She was wearing one of those classic worsted grey pantsuits that all of the no-nonsense women in corporate America favored. It was topped off by an extremely expensive white pure-silk blouse with the big bow that substitutes for a tie with a woman.

I read her message loud and clear. “I am a totally sexless creature, so no hanky-panky.” But even dressed like Hilary Clinton she couldn’t disguise those hips and that perfect round ass and her panther-like grace as she climbed in.

I had the top up on the Mustang because I wanted to make a statement myself, which was that I was not on a joy ride. Both of us were nervous so we limited the conversation to general observations about the weather during the short trip across the Schuylkill.

She had not asked where we were going, and she was surprised and looked more than a little irritated when a short time later I parked at the Dave and Busters that fronts the marina. She was NOT a Dave and Busters kind of girl.

I had packed breakfast in a small hand basket, just a thermos of Earl Grey and some scones with a container of clotted cream and the Dundee Orange marmalade I favor. I popped the trunk and took it out. She looked at me quizzically.

We proceeded through the marina gate without talking and stepped onto the dock that fronts the slips. That was when she figured out where we were going. She said in a really angry tone of voice, “I’m not going out on a boat with YOU.”

I said, “I know that. It was just that there was no way you would be willing to come up to my place and I hate coffee shops. So, THIS seemed like the best neutral ground.” And with that I gestured to the quarterdeck of my boat. It was the first time that I had known Jane that she actually looked delighted.

We stepped down into the cockpit, which in an NA 40 is pretty roomy, and I began laying out the cups and scones and pouring the tea. She watched my preparations with an amused look; sitting with her legs tucked gracefully up under her on the port side navigator’s bench.

When I was done, I handed her a steaming china cup and hitched the taller helmsman’s chair over to the table in front of her. I said curiously, “So what do you want to talk about?”

She looked flustered then said with a nervous laugh, “What? No foreplay?”

I told her that I was neither smart enough, nor sophisticated enough, to beat around the bush with somebody like her. So, would she please tell me what the problem was, thinking to myself, “the ball’s in your court sweetie pie!”

She looked pensive. I thought to myself, “She really has a beautiful, wide, sensual mouth.” Then the words came tumbling out.

She said, “I’ve felt like there was something very special between us from the second that we met.”

I thought, “No Shit!!”

Then she said, “That’s why I can’t understand why you’ve been such a total asshole to me.”

I knew exactly what she was talking about, in terms of the “special” part, but “ASSHOLE”? So, I said rather heatedly, “I felt the same absolute connection, but I don’t understand why you thought I treated you badly. Explain THAT”.

She was really getting into it - angry now. She said, “You were cold. You ignored me and you talked down to me every chance you got. I know I’m not a professor, but I’m not STUPID, and I will not be condescended to, no matter how much smarter and more sophisticated you think you are.”

So, there it was!! She was undeniably correct. That was exactly how I had treated her.

My inner self was throwing things around in my head and yelling, “I hope you’re happy you fucking moron! You acted like a patronizing d-bag because you didn’t have the balls to tell her how you REALLY felt about her.”

That explained all the hostility and acting out. It as pure resentment. Jane felt belittled. So, she was making the point that she had plenty of other men in her life. She didn’t need me. It was perfectly logical behavior. That is - if you’re a female.

But she couldn’t keep up the pretense. So, she’d mustered her courage and called me. That took guts.

Forget witty comebacks. I knew that I would never be able to live with myself if I didn’t tell this brave little woman exactly how I ACTUALLY felt about her.

I said, “I have never come close to experiencing anything like the way I feel about you. And I have felt that way since the moment I laid eyes on you. To me you are the epitome of everything I have ever wanted and desired in a woman.”

I looked her directly in her big intelligent eyes and added, “If I was disrespectful to you, or was not as forthcoming as you wanted me to be, it was because of what you do to me. I want to be with you like I have never wanted to be with any other woman in my life.”

D’oh!!! That was a stupid thing to say – honest yes - but an utter romantic faux-pas. I expected Jane to go stomping back up the dock. But instead she flopped back on the bench like I had hit her.

I truly believe that the species wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for women. Men are just too simple minded. I was a full ten years older. I had been an army helicopter pilot and everything that needed to be said had now been said. Yet I was still sitting there with my head hanging down like an embarrassed eight-year-old.

So, Jane took the initiative. She thought for a couple of seconds and then pushed decisively off the bench, walked around the table, took my head in her beautiful little hands and laid a kiss on me that had steam coming out of my ears.

I stood up still kissing her and embraced that magnificent body, hanging on to her like she was the only thing keeping me from falling down a very deep and dark hole.

People talk about skyrockets going off when you kiss the woman you are destined to marry. That didn’t happen to me. Instead it felt like all of the missing pieces had suddenly and irrevocably clicked into place and I was whole for the first time in my life.

I pushed her back, looked at her lovely face and saw that she was crying and even shivering a bit.

Emotion is a funny thing. It comes in a lot of contradictory forms. You can laugh bitterly when you’re angry and when you are unbelievably happy you cry. And men don’t come close to the emotional depth of your average woman. Jane was no average woman and I could see the major forces that were bouncing around inside her.

I had not planned any seductions and frankly I wasn’t sure what to do next. The obvious step was the cabin with its double-wide bed. But although every fiber in my body was screaming to seal the deal, I didn’t know how she would interpret that move. So, I hesitated.

She looked amused and said, “Does this place have a bed?” Aye, aye skipper!

We more-or-less fell through the cabin hatch, with me tugging her coat and big silk bow off as we stumbled along toward the bed. She was agitatedly yanking at my belt.

The NA 40 has hull mounted bunks for serious racers, but I had converted mine so that there was a relatively large bed at the end of the galley up against the forward sail locker. We both had dropped our shoes as we fell into it.

I had unbuttoned most of the buttons of her silk blouse by that point. Her boobs in their fancy lace bra emerged. I gazed at those wondrous peaks like the first white man who had ever seen the Himalayas, fucking awe inspiring!

She shed her blouse and reached frantically behind her to unsnap her bra. I am glad she did because there were at least two extra hooks on the thing. I wouldn’t have known where to begin. What fell out were two of the most beautifully shaped breasts a woman has ever possessed; huge, firm and very high- riding on her chest.

The nipples were something special, big and brown and rock-hard. I took the time to worship each one individually, licking and nipping, which gave both of us the opportunity to clear the decks below.

We were now completely naked, and I was on one elbow next to her gawking at her perfect body. Her wide hips screamed womanly with both hip bones and her mons jutting an amazing distance above the plane of her belly.

Her legs were incredible, full and muscular and perfectly shaped with every muscle group clearly defined from her hips down to her feet. But it was her face, now totally lost in her own desire that turned her exceptional beauty into something far beyond perfect.

I moved between her legs which she gracefully raised off the bed to the classic fucking position. As I did so I could smell the fragrance coming off her hair and the skin of her upper body. It was the smell of good health and unaffected beauty, almost tangy but with overtones of woods, fields and sun.

It was erotic as hell; while her womanly scent would drive any man wild with lust. I hesitated because I wanted to savor the moment, but Jane doesn’t work that way. She reached between us and impatiently inserted me into her.

People talk about a woman opening herself to a lover but until you have experienced what Jane did you will never understand what that means. Jane gave herself to me totally at that instant.