Chapter 13

The experience of watching "Virgins on Fire," with Shirley sitting there with me, checking my reactions, was other-worldly. The woman kept surprising me. I realized, after the fact, that there were about 101 ways I could have really screwed up our relationship while watching that movie. But the fact that I evidently hadn't done so meant several very positive things:

1. I was no longer as error-prone, in dealing with Shirley, as I had been, initially;

2. Shirley's tolerance levels were reasonably high. In fact, she had been downright forgiving. It wasn't so much that I'd said and done the right things; she just wasn't overreacting, any longer, when I wasn't perfect;

3. Probably just by happy accident, my normally out-of-control penis had been soft -- and hard -- at precisely the correct times. (Attention, you non-professionals out there: Don't try this at home!)

Shirley had claimed that there was no such thing as a "wrong" reaction on my part to seeing her film. She might have believed, herself, that it was a true statement, but I knew better. Still, amazingly, I had passed the test, anyway.

I really was curious about seeing another one of her movies -- one with a scene where she had to simulate an orgasm from coitus. But I decided I wouldn't bring it up again. That second movie would go unseen by me unless and until Shirley decided I ought to see it.

Most of all, I wanted to grill her about what she had been thinking (!) when she had sprung "Virgins on Fire" on me as our evening's entertainment. Of course, I sort of got the point: It was supposed to be my final exam.

Additionally, I figured that showing the movie was for my benefit, to increase my comfort levels. It tended to demonstrate that she really hadn't appeared in truly hard-core flicks -- only those ridiculous Cinemax-style late-nighters. If Shirley said this one was representative of all four, that was good enough for me.

And she had turned me on, too. Big-time! The movie, in a vacuum, might not have been all that stimulating, but when I had seen my own Shirley, nude and in motion, it had become enthralling. Suddenly, I was glad that she'd been in those damned movies! I wanted to collect them all! I wanted to cut everything out of all four of her movies except the scenes she was in -- preferably alone. I wanted to get an expert film-cutter to combine them all into one feature-length tribute to my amazing, gorgeous, sexy, beloved Shirley!

And I wanted to watch the whole thing, with Shirley by my side, on our fiftieth wedding anniversary.

Had she been aware of that? The fact that one of my many reactions to seeing her so-called schlock film would be outright artistic worship? Did she ever see, amidst her own negative reactions to these films, the redeeming social value that her presence had given them?

I wanted a copy of everything she'd ever performed in. Including the two television sitcom episodes, where, presumably, all her clothing had stayed on throughout.

I loved her. She'd better damned well love me back, or I was going to need some serious rehab, for a long time to come.

Even after watching the film together; even after our discussion of "when" we would finally make love, we didn't. Not that night. Pretty peculiar, right?

But that was OK. I felt as if we had an understanding. I was pretty sure that, the very next time we met, it would be the end of the long, strange mating ritual, and the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I was certain enough about this that I made plans, then and there, to at last become the aggressor. If Shirley wanted me to stop, next time, she'd have to say so, in plain English. No more subtle signals that I would graciously try to read, looking for my stop-sign.

If she didn't affirmatively push me away, my intention was to push on.

But the next time I saw Shirley wasn't really the "next time" we'd be together and alone. She dropped by my house, early-early on the first day of the semester.

When I answered the door, I momentarily didn't recognize her. She was dressed in Standard Coed Outfit Type A. Only -- her beautiful blonde hair was now a medium-dark brown. It was shining and lustrous, and the coloring job had been professionally done. My gorgeous, overwhelmingly lovely blonde goddess was now a brownette.

Still a goddess, though.

"What do you think?" she asked, searching my face for giveaway reactions.

"You're incredibly beautiful," I said.

"Thanks. I just thought -- it might help me avoid the old 'I saw you on the Internet' routine for a little while longer."

"It's a very different look," I agreed. "It might help you, with the recognition thing. And, fortunately, it doesn't detract from your essential gor-ge-ousity. Not even one little bit!"

I'd said the right thing, again. She left for her first day of college, beaming.

Was I getting good at saying the right thing, or what?

So school finally had started and Shirley was immersed, for the whole first four-day week, in adjusting her class schedule, buying textbooks, changing her working hours at the furniture store, meeting a few classmates, and learning her way around the campus, now that knowing where things were really counted.

I saw her a couple of times, and I could tell she was absolutely thrilled with the whole University Experience.

I was thrilled to. And I was pleased with myself, realizing how seldom, in my young, selfish life, I had taken so much pleasure in just watching another human being experiencing some happiness.

When Friday came, Shirley had been to each of her five classes for at least one session, and was brimming over with enthusiasm. If she could maintain this verve for four years, she was bound to graduate with a perfect 4.0.