Chapter 1

It was a late Summer Saturday afternoon in New York. He was feeling a little restless, so he decided to take a short walk from his apartment near 10^th Street and University Place to the Strand bookstore at 12^th and Broadway. He was feeling flush with a little extra spending cash that came from an article he had written for a professional journal. He was looking for a Sue Grafton first edition to complete his collection. He had all but the first three alphabet mysteries.

It was hot and he was perspiring as he walked into the door of the Strand. He checked his bag and got the usual one half of a playing card as his receipt. The Strand had been using this system for years. He put his half of the Queen of Hearts in his shirt pocket and walked further into the store.

As always, he stopped to take in the organized chaos that is the Strand. As he looked around, he spotted a young woman reading a book of poetry. The look on her face was intense, she was really concentrating on what she was reading. She was cute in a sundress, with those flip slop sandals that have such a thin sole, he wondered how anybody could be comfortable walking in them. She seemed to be mesmerized by what she was reading, so he moved a little closer.

As he closed the gap between them, he saw that she was a natural beauty: auburn hair, worn down to her shoulders, blue eyes, and creamy skin. She reminded him of a lover he had when he was much younger.

“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but notice how intently you’re reading. May I ask what it is?” he said. She turned to him, flashing gorgeous blue eyes and said, “Do you really want to know?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

She said, “It’s a book of erotic poems written by women. I particularly like this one. Here, take a look.”

She handed the book to him open to a poem called Basket of Figs by Emily Bass.

He read:

Bring me your pain, love. Spreadit out like fine rugs, silk sashes,
warm eggs, cinnamon
and cloves in burlap sacks. Show me

the detail, the intricate embroideryon the collar, tiny shell buttons,
the hem stitched the way you were taught,
pricking just a thread, almost invisible.

Unclasp it like jewels, the goldstill hot from your body. Empty your basket of figs.

Spill your wine.

That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it, cradling it on my tongue like the slick
seed of pomegranate. I would lift it

tenderly, as a great animal mightcarry a small one in the private
cave of the mouth.

“You like to live dangerously, I see,” he said. “Wasn’t Cleopatra’s asp delivered to her in a basket of figs?”

“Yes it was,” she said, “But I found the line about ‘sucking the hard nugget of pain’ to be incredibly erotic.” She said this looking him straight in the eye, and without blushing.

“I never thought of a mouth as a cave before,” he responded, “But I love the metaphor.”

That made her blush a little.

She put the book under her arm and said, “I’m going to buy this one. I love erotica written by women.”

“And I love pretty young women who get turned on by reading erotica written by women,” he said. “May I buy you a cup of coffee, or something cold to drink?”

“Why not? And cold is better. Let’s get a beer.”

“I know just the place,” he said. “But it’s a bit of a hike in this heat, let’s grab a cab.”

She paid for her book and waited for him to retrieve his bag, “Oh, the Queen of Hearts, my favorite,” she smiled.

Outside they were lucky. A cab pulled up and dropped off a couple who hurried into the Strand. He held the door for her and marveled at her tightly muscled legs as she dropped into the seat and scooted across.

She saw him looking and smiled. “That’s OK, you can look. I’ve worked hard at the gym to get these legs.”

He settled into his seat, and told the driver to take them to Chumley’s on Bedford Street in the West Village, a writer’s hangout ever since it opened as a speakeasy in 1922. “You know Chumley’s,” he asked.

She shook her head.

“You’re in for a treat then,” he said. “A real literary hangout in the old days, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Kerouac. Not sure if Anais Nin stopped in when she was in New York.”

The cab pulled up to a nondescript building. They got out and walked the few steps down moving from the bright afternoon sunshine into a somewhat gloomy interior.

“Let’s sit here,” he said, pointing to a table in the corner. It wasn’t crowded at that hour. “I’ll get us a couple of beers. What would you like?”

“Anything cold, and just the bottle.”

He went to the bar and ordered to Brooklyn Lagers. He brought both back to the table and sat down. “To female erotica writers and the pretty women who read them,” he said.

She smiled and sipped her beer. “Funny you should mention Anais Nin. Delta of Venus is one of my favorite books. It’s a shame that it wasn’t published until after her death.”

He watched her beautiful lips as she raised the bottle to take another sip. She made drinking a beer seem erotic. He thought back to the poem she had shown him in the Strand, and remembered the line, “I would suck it, cradling it on my tongue like the slick seed of pomegranate.” He felt himself getting hard just watching this sexy young woman, seemingly unaware of her powerful sexuality.

They were sitting side by side on a banquet. Her legs kept pushing up against his by accident – or was it? He decided to push back. She didn’t move that strong thigh. He noticed that her dress had ridden up, showing a lot of that leg. He put his hand on her leg, gently tickling and caressing it with his fingers. She didn’t seem to notice – just kept sipping her beer in that amazingly erotic way she had about her.

They talked about a lot of things. She had just finished an MFA in Creative Writing at NYU. He was a professor in the business school at Columbia. “If you teach at Columbia, why do you live way downtown? Wouldn’t it be an easier commute if you lived on the West Side?” she said.