Chapter 1: Us

During the Nixon Administration, Young Republican (YR) social events were among the premiere dating venues in Washington, DC. YRs were more political and social than policy, but there were exceptions. Lots of miniskirted lovelies, boldly made up with big hair, prowled for potentially upward bound men.

Individual women often collected a couple of interested men. Especially notable women might become surrounded by a male posse. At first, I couldn’t see the face of a woman holding court at the bar, where a number of men trying to get her interest. Sitting on a bar stool, her skirt had ridden high, revealing lacy tops of black stockings. Focused on conversation, she didn’t notice, and wasn’t tugging at her hem. With my usual analytical approach, I realized that her dress wasn’t as short-skirted as most of the miniskirted outfits around.

Most of the women wore pantyhose, usually of neutral or suntan hues. If their skirts rode up, they had no stocking tops with which to be concerned. This woman, however, was catching eyes, with lacy-topped black stockings, held up with black garters over white skin. It didn’t come across as a sloppy look, but as unusual and seductive.

While her black dress wasn’t quite a Cabaret corset, it did show off some cleavage, and her bustline. While she wasn’t huge-breasted, they definitely were noticeable. All in all, I got the sense that her clothing was a little out of fashion, but her strong personality overcame it. That personality showed in her engaging in vigorous conversation, dismissing some of her would-be admirers.

She reminded me, a bit, of Sally Bowles, Liza Minelli’s character in Cabaret. She has a very nice figure, although that wasn’t obvious with what she was wearing when I first met her.

As I came closer, I saw her face. She was older than the bulk of women there, with a strong face, capped by short, shining, blue-black hair. She has thick, shining, blue-black hair that she wears fairly short, in a cap molded to her head. Her eyes are amazing. It’s hard to describe their color -- violet? gray?

I started to hear her as well. She had a lovely contralto voice, perhaps musically or dramatically trained. She was interrogating, politely, but trying to find out if men could engage her mind. That wasn’t common at these events.

I met her when I was 23 and she 32. I had had all too many first dates with wonderful women, who wouldn’t go out a second time because they felt rejected. The reality was that I wasn’t reading signals.

Shara strikeout

One sad example before Lynda: At a Young Republican (YR) social evening, one of the premier “meat markets” of the area, I wanted to meet women. Lots of the girls -- a term I’m using deliberately -- who came there were interested in the YRs as mostly rising professionals, well-off and maybe with power. I did appreciate the attractiveness, but I might find someone who looked wonderful and provocative but couldn’t hold a conversation.

I met a woman, Shara, that pushed many of my intellectual and sexual buttons. Tall, slender, dark-complected with long black hair, her outfit was fascinating. It built on what I suppose could be called a short catsuit, or maybe a PVC bodysuit, skin-tight where it covered. Her legs were sheathed in blue hose, which on close examination had a fine fishnet pattern. Blue ankle-strapped high pumps were at the base.

Shara, it turned out, was a public health nurse, with advanced training in epidemiology.

By itself, this would be pure slutwear, although a nice form. She made it unusual, though, with a long jacket or coat covering, mostly worn open. Closed, her look became a moderate dress.

Open, and allowing the bottom to flare, one could appreciate a magnificent ass. A seam went between her buttocks, separating and raising, with a corresponding front seam making a cameltoe. She was adept with the movements of the coat, clearly controlling what was seen.

She was somewhat older. When I responded with my interest in epidemiology and infectious disease, she probed for my knowledge. I noticed that the deeper we got into substantive conversation, the harder became her nipples.

At one point, she was discussing her part in a response team to a cholera epidemic in Africa. “I amaze myself, Arnold, that I can spend a day nursing people with terrible diarrhea or even dying of it, but afterwards, I can look at the well-formed ass of a healthy man or woman and enjoy what I see.” She gave me a brilliant smile and licked her lips, but I had not a clue.

We planned a date for dinner and a movie. Her outfit was comparable, letting her be provocative at the dinner table but modest when the waiter came by. In what turned out to be a decrepit cab, she seemed to fidget. Since I could see the seat was patched in places, I figured it was uncomfortable, and she was sliding to press against me to find a more comfortable spot. She sighed periodically -- if only she had been explicit.

In the theater, I soon felt her knee against my thigh, but hesitated to touch anything until we talked. Boldly for me, I put my arm around her shoulders, but when her hand stroked at mine, I didn’t realize it was an invitation to touch her breast.

When I got her home, there might have been an opportunity to redirect, but instead, I picked up the scientific discussion. In the subsequent days, I called a few times, but she was never available.

Meeting Lynda

Things were much happier when I met Lynda at one of these YR social evenings. She was holding court at the bar. I heard her brush off rather basic passes and mentioning that she did want to talk politics. When I caught her eye and gave her an inquiring glance, she inquired, “Can you interest me by telling me some things about libertarianism?”

“Theoretical or practical? Lots of people think Ayn Rand, but I find the fusionism of Frank Meyer. The left-libertarians don’t really have it together. I respect their idea of a social safety net, but they haven’t explained how to fund it. Even some of the right-libertarians aren’t great about funding core services such as courts, police, and emergency services.”

She laughed, grabbed my tie, and started to pull me along. “Come on to dinner.”

“Wonderful! I should introduce myself. I’m Arnold Kranz.”

“Yes, I should as well. Lynda Campbell here.” I realized that she was a good deal older, but extremely attractive in a way different than the usual presentation. While I’m not a fashion expert, I had the impression that she wore outfit that might not be the latest, but once was a high-quality cocktail dress.

I was very good at finding interesting, inexpensive restaurants. Tonight, I took us to an outstanding Cuban place, the Omega. The staff were very tolerant of people that lingered to talk, although more often than not, they were emigres wondering how to take back their country. Otherwise, though they had a Latin respect for potential or actual romance. Our waiter was nothing but smiles.

Growing up, living with assorted relatives, I got a lot of anti-sex conditioning. It wasn’t “no means no”, but “have a notarized consent before touching.”

We had a delightful, wide-ranging conversation. She said, “I finally got rid of my boyfriend, who was an absurd member of the libertarian movement. His business cards struck me as hysterical in their contradictions, until I realized he was serious when he wrote Benevolent Dictator of a Libertarian Commune. The pinup of Raquel Welch over his bed didn’t help. I don’t at all mind enjoying porn together, but not when I have to compete with it.

When I met Lynda, she earned food as an accounting clerk. One of her accounting jobs was at the Richard Viguerie company, the guru of right-wing direct-mail fundraising, where she learned a lot about politics. She had musical interests of professional quality and played the piano, mostly jazz. Since coming to DC, she hadn’t gotten any paid work in music. She was a latecomer to dance and gymnastics.

If I flatter myself, I call myself a Renaissance Man. At the least, I have a wide range of interests. My core areas are computer science and network engineering, with additional background in medicine and national security policy. Oh, I’m an excellent cook.

“Arnold, I want to keep discovering interesting things about you; I don’t think I’ve heard half of them. I believe you’ve said you have your own place? I have roommates that really don’t make me comfortable in taking you to bed there. Whenever you’re ready, let’s do that.”

“Did I just hear you want to take me to bed?”

“Yes. Are you one of those guys who runs away when the woman suggests that?”

“Not at all. At such time that we talk in more detail, it’s absolutely wonderful, liberating for me. I have to confess, though, that I’m not very experienced. Technically, I lost my virginity, experimenting with a nice streetwalker. She was sweet. I probably would have dated her if we met elsewhere, and there was the same ... um ... permissiveness? Besides that, I depend more on my reading.”

Lynda smiled softly. “I’m more experienced, but I can’t say most of it was good sex. Once in a while, I had fun. There’s no question in my mind that you’ll be concerned with my pleasure as well as yours, which is great. When we’re alone, I’ll tell you more of things that I’ve done. I want to hear about your stuff. Let’s agree to help each other and to be really honest.”

She had taken a cab to the social. I drove us to my apartment, in a rather nice building on upper Connecticut Avenue. I sensed she was wondering if I had parents that paid for it, since I seemed a little young. “Lynda, I’ll simply mention that while I might be young, I’ve been very successful in my profession.”

Talking about beginnings

When we got inside, she laughed. “Yes, it’s on the messy side. That doesn’t bother me at all. I think the important thing is you seem to be an honest guy. Let’s sit down and talk.

“I grew up in a horribly fundamentalist family. My church work, at first, was in the office -- I was a competent clerk, and then they found that I was good at accounting. They were terribly anti-sex, but I still was chased by cousins and lost my virginity to them. They weren’t terribly good lovers, but I wound up feeling guilty because I had gotten some pleasure, which I concealed from them. I did have a sense that sex, under the right circumstances, could be very good.

“My parents’ sect did encourage music. I played the piano, sang in the chorus, and then was a soloist. Leonard, a visitor to our back-of-the-woods community heard me, got me alone, and asked if I wanted to leave with him -- he knew that girls were rather suppressed.

“I did. He was nice and even romantic at first. In bed, he certainly was better than anyone I had before. His exciting idea was to start a nightclub act where I’d sing. The reality was that he was pimping me out to nightclub managers, in the hope they would take our act. I’m glad you spoke fondly of your streetwalker. While I wasn’t quite doing that, effectively I was a sex worker.

“He used me, but it wasn’t bad all the time. I discovered that if it was safe to do so, I liked to show off my body. There was a delicate line between my reveling in being naughty, or even nasty, and being demeaned or threatened. I am not turned on by humiliation.”

“Humiliation doesn’t turn me on, either. Lynda, exhibitionism doesn’t bother me in the least, other than I’m sorry about the times that weren’t good. To be utterly frank, the idea of having sex with a compatible woman who is sexually active, commercially or as an amateur, excites me. If nothing else, it helps banish my inhibitions. It does confuse me when I’m not sure if someone is accidentally or deliberately touching me.” I felt myself blushing. “I went to some of what I had heard were low-mileage strip clubs and had some lap dances. When someone bared their breasts or crotch, I could be sure that it was no accident, but I didn’t know where to go next. The hostess said that any touching of naughty areas would be controlled by the dancer.”

“Well, good, I had a fair bit of sex, even though I wasn’t experienced. Some weren’t bad, while some were worse. I like it when you say naughty, because that’s something that’s fun for me when I feel like I push the limits, the way my parents would never let me.

“Some of the clubs were mostly traditional nightclubs, with cabaret. Some drew from the movie Cabaret, so you could mingle with performers. Some were outright strip clubs, but we concentrated on the cabaret model where I did sing and play the piano.

“Growing up, I wasn’t the prettiest girl in school -- not that my parents let me do much with clothes, makeup, and so forth. I certainly had admirers. Later, when Leonard took me to the clubs, he introduced me to Priscilla, who was a “house mom” in some strip clubs, as well as a choreographer. She became what I wish my mother had been. Priscilla emphasized style--she resembled Elizabeth Taylor, both in her beautiful and less attractive phases.