Bette's Four Bold Tasks

I took a sheet of letterhead from a drawer, uncapped a pen, and wrote pretty much what Bette had dictated earlier. "From 4:00 to 5:00 PM today, Ms Bette Schneider and I met in conference to discuss the poetry of Jonathan Swift." I signed and dated the note. Bette folded it once and slipped it into her bag.

"Would you like a copy of the first picture of me?" she asked. She smiled. "For your records?"

"Yes, please," I said. "Not to my university email, please. Here's my personal account." I wrote my Gmail address on a pink "While you were out" slip and handed it to her. "Would you like a copy of the other photo?"

"No, that's okay," she replied. "The sweater-plus-bottomless one has got to be twice as sexy as the full-nude. I'm tempted to show my boyfriend, but I think Lodestone doesn't want me to show anyone but them. I guess it's best to keep the boyfriend out of the loop in any case."

"Yes, indeed."

"If he comes over tonight, he's in for one hell of a treat, though; I can tell you that."

She came over to me, faced me, and gave me a tender kiss. Her hand brushed against my half-erect penis. I returned the kiss but kept my hands to myself. "I guess your wife may be in for a treat tonight too, huh?" she said.

"Probably Ann and I both are. While it's happening, I promise to let my thoughts stray from time to time."

She gave me a warm smile. "Likewise, Professor Lancome. See you in a couple weeks."

************

Three weeks passed before Bette and I could meet again. We got together again on another late Friday afternoon, in my office. I noticed right off that her Lodestone pin now bore three red jewels. That would give us something to chat about when we tired of discussing poetry and Bette's own research. But first we had to go over Swift's late poems and maybe get started on Pope.

We never did get to Pope. By the time we finished our long, close analysis of Swift's "Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift" we were both ready to call it quits.

"Feel like telling me about Boldness tasks 2 and 3?" I invited.

"Sure," she replied, "if you don't blush easily."

"The last time we were together, I believe if was you who did most of the blushing," I teased.

"Probably never again--not after task 3," she teased back.

"Okay, you win."

Bette smiled and began. "Let's take these in order. I was pleased to find that task 2 did not involve anything sexual. Try not to look so disappointed! The task was to secure and participate in a private, one-on-one meeting with an eminent or powerful person. I chose Geoffrey Bannock. We had a delightful talk about Swift's poems--'The Lady's Dressing Room' particularly."

I was impressed. Bannock is one of the great scholars and critics of English literature. I had read one of his books and a half dozen of his articles in graduate school. He holds endowed chairs at both Cambridge University and University College, London. This semester he is Distinguished Visiting Professor at Yale.

Bette continued. "Getting him to meet with me was no easy task, believe me. I like to think I won him over with my intelligence and persistence, not my perky breasts. Though Lodestone teaches that you use every tool in your toolbox. Which is not to say that it's okay to use a chisel when you really need a flat-bladed screwdriver. In any case, Geoffrey Bannock and I finally did get together, in his office at Yale, and he was gracious and charming.

"He thought that the oddness of 'The Lady's Dressing Room' goes back to Swift's sudden discovery that he could not marry the love of his life, Stella--apparently because they were actually very closely related, courtesy of Swift's benefactor and possibly actual father, Sir William Temple. Apparently Sir William was as generous with his sperm as he was with his money. What a shock: discovering that the woman you love is, you might say, poisoned deep down underneath the beautiful surface. Genetically poisoned, at least for Swift as a suitor. It's sort of analogous to syphilis and also to Original Sin. And to the shit in our bowels.

"The fashionable fop in the poem is devastated when he finds evidence that, deep inside the girl he has a crush on, there is foul corruption--in this case, shit. That's a very earthy, concrete analogue of Swift's sudden discovery of Stella's genetic 'corruption.' And of course, coming up with earthy, concrete analogues of abstract things is exactly what Swift does best. Look at Gulliver's Travels!"

Bannock's knowledge was immense, and his interpretation of the poem was sound--though not especially original. Other scholars had made the same connections. But Bette was so taken with Bannock's conversation, I decided to say nothing.

"Anyway, we had a fascinating talk, and I even got to keep my clothes on this time. Although fucking Geoffrey Bannock would be something fun to tell your children about, when they start thinking you're just an old fuddy-duddy."

"You Europeans!" I teased. "You're always pretending that sex is natural and normal and fun. Very un-American of you. Speaking of, were you allowed to keep your clothes on for task 3 also?"

"No."

"And...?"

"And so I didn't.... Okay, don't look at me like that: I'll tell you. My task 3 was to find a way of being naked in a public place for at least 20 minutes and seen by numerous people including numerous men. So I couldn't just take a long shower in the ladies' locker room. Apparently I could complete the task by just visiting a nudist colony, but how "bold" is that? Not very.

"My boyfriend--probably now my ex-boyfriend--is studying Theater and Drama, and he spends a lot of time at the Studio Theater. It's over in Fuller Hall? It's a small theater, very plain stage, few props. They put on mostly experimental and avant-garde works there."

"Yes, I've been there," I said.

"Okay, good. So they often do improv theater there. My... whatever he is... pulled a few strings and managed to get me on the program one night when they were doing a bunch of short, mostly improv works. Now, I know nothing about acting and still less about experimental theater, so I thought I'd do a nude poetry reading. Trust me, that makes at least as much sense as most of the pieces they perform. They had a big crowd that evening, too, for them. At least 75 people in the audience, maybe 100.

"I snuck one of my own poems in, but the rest were real published poems by real poets. There was no rehearsal; I just came and did it. So there's just a little table on stage and a black background, and they gave me and a tiny little wireless mic on a necklace. I told the lighting guy not to do anything fancy or dramatic. Don't bathe my body in dark shadows, no chiaroscuro, no special effects. Don't put a spotlight in my eyes: I've got to read the words on the page. If you absolutely have to do something fancy, see if you can give my pubic hair a nice golden sparkle. I was just being ironic. Son of a gun, people told me he really did! I guess I underestimated him.

"Anyway, I start off fully dressed, reading Sylvia Plath's 'Daddy.' Young women love that one. The poet's got lots of anger, lots of daddy-issues. And I'm hamming it up a little--lots of scorn, sarcasm, not much nuance. And I'm taking my clothes off as I'm going on. I started out thinking this is a hilarious parody of a poetry reading, but pretty soon I start feeling that the stripping is actually complementing this poem beautifully. She's angry at and sneering at Daddy, and she's stripping in front of him, taunting him with her body as she's taunting him with her words. All the Oedipal stuff in the poem really comes to life, and I'm really getting into it! You'd love to fuck me, Daddy, wouldn't you, you pervert!

"Pulling down my panties in public is still a little stressful, but it was easier this time than it was in your office. And right afterwards I felt great. And for the first time, I'm actually starting to like that poem. And the audience is getting into it, and some of them are egging me on! It was a wonderful experience for me--I loved it. What a high!

"I stayed naked for the rest of the reading. The audience was having fun, I was having fun.... After about five minutes I was just feeling very, very comfortable being naked on a stage with maybe 200 eyeballs staring at me. My breasts swaying as I moved, my pubic hair sparkling--what there is of it. My nipples were getting erect just out of the sheer pleasure of what I was doing.

"Well, I read a few other poems, and I ended with Robert Lowell's 'To Speak of Woe That Is Marriage.' That one is perfect in the nude! So you've got a soliloquy by the long-suffering wife of this genius poet who's a schizophrenic and a heavy drinker and a lecher with erectile dysfunction. In fact, it finally dawned on me that the wife herself is probably naked for this soliloquy. At least below the waist. She's submitting to an unsuccessful 5 AM attempt at sex by her husband. 'Gored by the climacteric of his want, / He stalls above me like an elephant.' The only problem is, she's horizontal and I'm vertical. Next time I do that poem naked, I'm going to be in the missionary position with my head pointed away from the audience... if you can picture that."

"I can picture it remarkably well," I replied. "It's only been three weeks."

"It seems like so long ago!" She looked me in the eyes. "Too long.... Anyway, the audience loved the show. I think it got the most applause of anything that night. And Studio Theater makes a video recording of each work they perform. I would love to show that to you, Stephen. You've already seen me with my clothes off anyway, as I recall."

Her face darkened. "Unfortunately, there's a problem. My reading constituted one hell of a massive copyright violation. Theatre management is doing its best to pretend the reading never happened; my probably-ex boyfriend seemed like a convenient person to blame the debacle on, so they did; and they ordered the video recording to be erased. Of course, the existence of a bootleg copy or two would surprise no one, so there's still hope I can share this with you. I can show you at least the photo of me on-stage that's on my phone. I should have invited you to the performance, Stephen. I'm truly sorry I didn't. I do apologize."

"Now you owe me three favors," I teased. "Four, if we ever have sex with each other--if I recall my reasoning of three weeks ago."

"Do you want to have sex with me, Stephen? I do think I am between boyfriends at the moment."

"The answer is still yes, Bette. But maybe 'Do you want to?' isn't the only question."

"You are so predictable!" she complained, half-seriously. "Sometime, surprise me by saying something unexpected."

"What do you tell your friends about Lodestone?" I asked. "They must be curious about that pin you're always wearing, with its increasing number of jewels. Do they know the whole story?"

"Okay, that query was unexpected at this particular moment. I'll let you win that one.... To answer your question: Two close female friends of mine know everything including who my accomplice was for task 1. My ex knows everything except who my accomplice was.

"I made up a clever lie to tell casual friends and classmates if they ask. I tell them I have a whole box of the pins. I say they're trinkets inherited from my dear, departed grandmother. I tell them she worked at Pratt & Whitney during World War Two. Whatever that three-bladed thing is supposed to be, it does look enough like a propeller to pass for one, stylized maybe. Anyway, I say the pins are just cheap length-of-service pins, promotional pins, trinkets like that. Pratt & Whitney gave them away by the hundreds. I tell them the pins' manufacturer used ordinary glue, so it's the rare pin that still has all four jewels eighty years later. The pins just have a certain sentimental value to me.

"So far, everyone has believed that cock-and-bull story. So far, it hasn't occurred to anyone that if Grandma had been making aircraft engines during the war, it would have been for BMW, not Pratt & Whitney."

Bette kissed my cheek. "I have to run, Stephen. Thank you for another excellent conference. I'd like to ask your help once more, for task 4. That will be the end of Boldness--at least with a capital B. I would turn to someone else for this help, but you really are the best qualified. I'll send you an email with details--to your Gmail address. Is there any chance you could give me a 'yes' right now?"

I knew a dumb, stupid, dangerous move when I saw one.

"Yes," I said.

Bette kissed my lips briefly and then smiled. "You won't regret this, Stephen. That's a promise." She picked up her things and left.

*************

The email with attached photograph was in my inbox when I returned home. The email proper was blank. The attached photo was a close-up of a document on Lodestone stationery. Just the organization's name was printed on the letterhead: no address, phone number, email, or Web URL.

The document read,

BETTINA SCHNEIDER

Level 1: Boldness

Task 4: Violate 2 of the 10 Commandments. Simultaneously preferred. Refer to either Exodus 20 or Deuteronomy 5. Do not kill a human being.

Underneath was a note in Bette's handwriting. Its first paragraph was preceded by a check-mark. It read,

Exodus 20:17b (mutatis mutandis): Thou shall not covet thy neighbor's husband... Violation ongoing.

The Latin meant, "with the necessary changes." Swift had used the phrase in several works.

Bette's second paragraph read only, Exodus 20:14. I was pretty sure that one wasn't "Honor thy father and thy mother." A trained scholar, I looked it up instead of guessing. No surprises at what the verse said.

Well, at least it was a Commandment I myself was used to breaking--first with the help of Beth and then, on occasion, with Dev. In fact, that's pretty much how I spent last summer and fall. One more act of adultery on my record wouldn't make much difference.

As long as I was doing research, I looked up Lodestone on Wikipedia. There were plenty of things by that name in the world: ships, comic book characters, a snail, a theater ensemble, and of course the mineral. Wikipedia didn't have an entry on the secret sorority, though.

I emailed Bette a short note: "No need to go to the trouble mentioned in Exodus 20:14. On Sunday you could just forget the sabbath and fail to keep it holy (Exodus 20:8).

She replied two minutes later. "How bold would that be? I could have gone to a nudist colony for task 3, too. Lunch at my place tomorrow? Noon-ish?" She added the address of her apartment.

Apparently she had had an afterthought. "Or come on Sunday, and maybe I can get credit for 3 different violations?"

We settled on tomorrow, Saturday.

Her final email advised, "Please wear your wedding ring. I'll need it for the photo."

************

After hours of discussion last fall, Ann and I had come up with a set of general principles and specific rules for our marriage. We granted each other a great deal more personal freedom and autonomy than spouses typically are given. Almost nothing was strictly prohibited except lying, deception, evasiveness, and sex with other people without a condom. That system might not work for a lot of couples, but it was working just fine for us. It had already come through a few stress tests with flying colors. The names of those stress tests were Beth, Justin, and Dev. My wife and I loved each other deeply and considered ourselves happily married.

Even so, Ann rolled her eyes when I told her that tomorrow I was having lunch with a student in her apartment. Likely more than just lunch.

Ann closed her book and set it down. "Please tell me at least she's a graduate student."

"She's a graduate student," I replied. "She's an adult, 25. A college graduate."

"And she's doing research for a graduate course that involves having sex with her professors?"

"Close," I said. It's a personal-growth project for a women's organization she joined called Lodestone. Ever heard of it? It's new to me too. Apparently it's sort of a cross between Eastern Star, Outward Bound, and Skull and Bones. They assigned her four tasks on the theme of boldness. She's completed three."

"And the fourth is sleeping with her professors? What's so bold about that? Don't female graduate students do that all the time?"

"Not like they used to back in the good old days," I said. "I mean back in less enlightened times. Actually the fourth task is to violate two of the Ten Commandments. Yes, I know there are easier ones to violate than adultery. And no, she's not allowed to kill anybody."

"Is this that Italian girl with the long hair and the big boobs?"

"No, it's the really smart German girl with the blonde hair. Bette Schneider. We're doing an independent study project together this semester."

Ann had that "Here we go again" look in her eyes. She had one more question: "And have you and Fraeulein Schneider already had sex? No, let me rephrase that. Have the two of you had any sexual contact?"

I had to think that one over. After several seconds I replied, "In all honesty, I would say no.... Would you say fondling her breasts counts as sexual contact?"

Ann rolled her eyes again and went back to her book.

************

Bette's chicken cacciatore was good, and the dry red Valpolicella she chose went well with it. We talked easily, of many things, over the meal. Bette was particularly eager to talk of how much she had changed from Lodestone after only a month. About how much more self-confident she now felt, how much less inhibited, how... well, "bold" really wasn't a bad summary, was it?, she said.

I thought she had been less inhibited than 90% of American women long before she started the program, but I did agree she was even less inhibited now. She certainly had committed wholeheartedly to Lodestone. Even at home, she was wearing the pin on her blouse.

"I still can't believe I undressed in front of 90 or 100 strangers and loved every minute of it," she said. "That's pretty advanced, even by German standards. Even by Berlin standards! Would you like me to strip and read 'Daddy' to you?"

"Thank you, no," I said. "I'll wait for the video to surface. 'Daddy' really demands sparkling pubic hair."

"Strip and do 'The Lady's Dressing Room'?"

"It's too soon after lunch for that one."

"How about if I just strip?" she offered.

"I think that would be best."

She took my hand and led me into the bedroom.

Her bedroom was small and tidy. The bed was what used to be called a "double." It could hold two sleepers who didn't mind staying cozy, and of course it was fine for fucking.

Bette faced me, smiled, and began unbuttoning her blouse. I was struck by how graceful and natural her movements were. She wasn't performing an erotic strip-tease, nor was she showing any hint of shame. She was merely taking her clothes off, entirely without self-consciousness, just as though she were alone and preparing to step into the shower. I was charmed.

She tossed the blouse onto a chair by the bed. She removed her bra, then trousers, then panties, as gracefully as she had her blouse, tossing each onto the chair in turn. The socks came off less gracefully, then they joined the rest of her clothes. She came to me, naked, and kissed me tenderly. I ran my hands over her beautiful body as we kissed. Then she stood back a few inches. Together, we removed all of my clothes. She tossed them onto the chair on top of hers.

"Not one blush so far, Bette," I said. "I'm impressed."

She gave me a smile. Then she knelt, took my penis into her mouth, and sucked on me for a couple of minutes. It felt lovely. In sheer technical skill as a fellatrice, Bette was not up to Ann's level, let alone Beth's. I cared not in the least. Bette was new and exciting and young and beautiful and different. She was trying to give me pleasure, and she was doing a good job. And she was only 25. Give her another ten years' practice, and she'll be superb.