Ask

Their meeting was warm, the day freezing. She was a polytheist; he, an antichrist. And when he passed the collection plate, she put in her last schilling.

There was no mediator. No arbitrator. She empowered him, allowed him to take her breath away until there was no longer breath to take. She was not even aware of the struggle, just the stimulation.

The first encounter differed little from the last.

It took place in her home, in her room. Neither of them had touched a lamp, but walked through the darkened house without speaking a word. Slowly. Purposefully. He had walked to the window and stared out at the shadowy park. She sat on the bed and stared at him. When he would occasionally, but not often, turn to momentarily look directly at her, he did not smile. Then he would turn and look at the park again.

She turned on the radio: jazz, barely audible. He noticed for the first time the photos all over the room, mostly portraits, barely visible by the dim light of the stereo. He walked slowly around the room, sizing her up. He sat on the bed next to her, his head in his hands. Still, he did not speak to her. He stared at nothing, she at him. Then, finally he turned his head and smiled at her, a gentle vulnerable smile, took her head in his hands and kissed her softly on the mouth, tentatively at first, then with desire. He did not take his eyes off of her eyes. She looked away, at the wall, at any other part of his face but his eyes. He made no move to undress her. He just continued to kiss her. He touched her hair, her skin, her blouse. He stared into her eyes. When he kissed her, she closed hers.

As suddenly as he gave her his attention, he withdrew it. He looked around the room for a moment as if trying to remember where he was. He ran his hands through his unkempt hair, eye glazed, for moment again deep in thought. He removed his jacket, dropped it on the floor.

He returned his attention to her. She was looking back this time. She was waiting for him to tell her what to do and he knew it. It was the "tell". Everything that they were about was what that moment was about. But he didn't tell her what to do. Not yet.

He undressed her as any lover would, intermingled in kisses. He was gentle with her. It was almost normal. Then he would suddenly stop and stare at her again for endless moments. And the anxiousness would rise in her afresh. When they were naked he gazed at her slowly, touched her breast as if she might be a phantom. She felt exquisite-- a work of art that he praised with his eyes, that he was seeing for the first time, touching for the first time; consuming it slowly with his eyes as if it was his first.

There had been one man before him in her life that she had considered a lover. After a year and a half, each kiss was like the first. When they were together (they had lived apart), usually on the weekends, he made love to her all night. It was not a matter of stamina. It was a matter of romance. He kissed her for an hour. Then they drank Chevis and listened to an album. Then they kissed for another hour. More Chevis, more music. He kissed her back and shoulders for an hour. He told her jokes. They talked. More Chevis. He kissed her whole body and touched her intimately for an hour. More Chevis. More music. And in the early hours of the morning he would take her in a frenzy and they would sleep. Never had she loved a man so. A political revolutionary from another country, he left for a cause and he never once looked back. She settled for less. After all, how many men were there who could fascinate her? Most men were really more or less alike as lovers, like they learned out of the same book, had the same older brother, or the same first lover.

So she let this stranger stare at her room, and stare at her body, and stare at her soul because he was taking his time. He was making her special. She was hoping he might be what the other had been in her life. And he was terribly close to meeting her expectations. But no two men are alike, really alike. They only resemble each other.

He did it all the way she wanted without asking. Like staring at her long enough seemed to make it clear. He painfully took his time, devouring one part of her and then another, his aggressiveness allowing her passivity. Until . . .

Until he spread her legs with his knees and stopped.

"What do you want?"

She opened her eyes. Dizzy. The room was spinning.

No smile, just those steel-grey eyes. "Tell me what you want."

She smiled and was coy. She met his gaze. She wiggled her hips up in an effort to trap the hard cock she was waiting for. His legs pinned her down. "Tell me what you want."

She reached up and touched his face with her hands. "I want you." He fiercely grabbed her hands and secured them over her head, "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to make love to me."

He didn't move. He didn't blink. He tightened his grip.

"I want you to fuck me." And he did. For awhile. Then he made her ask. He made her beg. He made her describe. And when she told him she was not very good at this, he smiled softly and said that she was doing fine. He held down her hands. He made her cry out. He bit her gently at first, then fiercely when he knew he could. He pushed her to her limits, but not over the edge. He asked nothing from her but to tell him what she wanted. Graphically. And it was not a matter of stamina this time either. But of timing; of art; of pausing and waiting; of continuing; until sleep came and neither were totally satisfied, just unable to bear the intensity any longer.

In the morning, before he left, he made love to her in a conventional manner. He dressed without speaking. He looked out at the park and looked at her photography as if memorizing each one. Then he simply said, "Thank you."

She told her roommate about him, what she could, but not everything. She slept at night with dreams of him. She smelled the pillow that carried his scent. She fought to stay away from the bar where they had met, where they had accidentally sat next to one another and he occasionally had looked at her and sometimes smiled, where she had tried to make conversation because she thought that it was necessary. She did not want to become a bar fixture. She wanted him to have to wait for her. She waited three weeks.

He wasn't there at first. But he had mentioned that he went there every day after work, spent more time there on Friday night. It was Friday. She waited. The band was good. The tourists this time of year were skiers. They tended to have a good time when they were not asleep at the tables. She sat at the bar. She drank Schnapps, his drink.

It was almost midnight when he came in. He did not see her. He sat on the other side of the bar. If he stopped watching the band and only looked up, he would see her. When he did, he merely stared. He didn't smile at her. He looked at her eyes. She looked back at his. For what seemed like hours. He sat there looking at her. And when it was late and she was ready she walked over to him and looked into his eyes. He quietly followed her home. He mentioned that he lived across the park. He memorized her living room this time. He took her, consumed her; possessed her.

She knew some things instinctively. She knew he was married although he had no ring. She knew conversation would take away the magic. She knew that he knew she was out of control. And she knew that once a month was enough for that kind of passion and that even then it would burn out relatively soon. And she became like him. She drank from his cup. She gave it all and took it all and savored each morsel of him. She recuperated for four weeks.

Once, she went to the bar for happy hour. She needed some conversation. It was the afternoon and she felt light and free. She did not expect him to be there and when he sat next to her she was surprised. He stared at her for a moment and she surprised him by saying hello. They had their first conversation. They did not discuss work, or hobbies, or the weather. He told her all about this family. Not his wife, but his ancestors. What he was proud of in his life. He was unexpectedly vulnerable, she decided. He talked of his dreams for his son. He did not look like what he was. But she was not sure what she thought he should be.

Once, she went with friends to the bar in a birthday celebration. Her roommate had never seen this mystery lover and was hoping to catch a glimpse of him. They were both surprised to see him playing guitar with the band. So that's what it was. That missing piece she had seen in his eyes. Not just a construction worker after all, but an artist like herself. Only an artist could create a work of art in bed. It suited him.

She went back once after she had moved. He followed her home even though she was now almost sixty miles away. His headlights behind her car through the dessert, the stars above close, the mountains on the vista spying on them. He had a new house to memorize, new windows to look out of, and she knew that it would be their last time together. She didn't know how she would be able to not have him in her life. But she didn't know how to say "Love me" when he whispered in her ear, "what do you want?" And if she had, it would not have been a possibility. She had chosen to leave, to start a new life in a new place. She would have to learn how to find a new lover.

so she stared long and hard at him because she knew she only had this time to remember every detail of his being. She kissed and received kisses intent on remembering the taste forever. And she realized that this was what he had done all along. It was the only thing that he could do, being unwilling to move away to a new life. And she held his hands over his head and ask him what he wanted. And he told her. Because it is not often that you get what you want.