Big Surprises

The me with the near constant erection. Just before I had drifted off — not much more than a couple of hours ago, I had said 'fuck it' for at least the third time since I met her: what did I care if the girl is a bank robber, a felon, a criminal, she's hot and she's at least as horny as I am and hey! I've got two days left with her, not a fucking lifetime: the girl's entertainment, not a wife.

"I just got this." It was a single piece of paper that she was flapping perilously close to my eyes. "Want to know what's in it?"

"Do I?"

She laughed. "Oh, ya," she could hardly contain herself. "It's going to totally change your life."

I tried to cool her off. "No it's not," I said this with complete confidence. "Nothing on that paper is going to have the slightest impact on me." I was heading home in two days with what I brought, a small bag plus a few killer memories.

This didn't register with her, she was grinning Cheshire-like, I had never seen her so excited. "I looked it up two nights ago when you were down in the pub getting hammered. I emailed her. This is her response." She flapped the thing at me again, this time close enough to flick my nose.

It was annoying, I slapped it away. "Who's she." I had no idea what she was talking about.

"She is the head of the nursing program at that cute little university you didn't tell me about that's not ten minutes from where you live, I know this because I Google Earth-ed the street address I saw on your bag. I'd say it's what? an 8 minute drive?"

I was trying to sorting through her cryptology when she connected the dots.

She was afraid to act on her heist because she didn't know what she would do afterwards, after she quit. She had no one in her life and now she would have no job, a job that had been her entire life's focus. But about four months ago she remembered the days when her body was racked with pain and wrapped in bandages; remembered the people scurrying in and out of her room; remembered the compassionate eyes, the caring questions, the constant encouragement and the shared joy as she turned the corner and slowly recovered. And she remembered what she had thought about all those years ago while she was a prisoner pinned to her bed: 'I'd like to be one of those women. I'd like to do that job.'

"I signed up to start nursing school in September ... not in London, I want out of here. In York. But, hey, I thought, why York? Why not ... you know. So I looked it up on the net, emailed her a note, told her I'm from England, you know, that I'd be a foreign student so I'd be paying top bucks — do you have a place in your nursing program for me? If yes, I'll send on my qualification post haste; please respond with the same rapidity. She did." She flicked me with the paper again and her message slowly sank in to my foggy brain.

"You're going into a nursing program in my city?"

"I'm in. The way I've got it figured I get over to your place in about 7-8 days from now, take a couple of weeks to get oriented ... acclimatized and be ready for classes in September. Perfect."

She reached for and handed me my coffee then took the other cup and clinked mine. "To our future."

She didn't mean to say it as a question but that's the way it came out and I could see a whole lot of doubt in her eyes: the woman was a master at talking herself out of ... and now into things and, thanks in no small part to me, she was coming to realize that. "So the emberzzler turns healer. Do you really think you're cut out for that?" I didn't.

She abruptly got up, hurried into the bathroom and was back in second with a facecloth which she carefully placed on the tray then slowly pulled back the covers. She didn't say anything, her face was serious, her movements were deliberate. She took the cloth which was damp and she gently and thoroughly wiped my chest, raising my arm so she could get at my arm pit and when she was finish with my upper body she put the clothe back on the tray and reached with both hands to the waist band of my boxers. I had a n erection now and I was totally captivated. She was impassive, deliberate, seemingly experienced and appearing totally in control, totally competent. When I lifted my ass, she slipped off my underwear and picked up the cloth and got busy. With deep concentration and with an entirely straight face she gingerly held my erection between two delicate fingers as she washed my pubic hair, my groin and into my ass, there wasn't the slightest suggestion of impropriety until she completed the task, smiled and bend down and sucked me twice. "Of course, I can do this. I'm really not the self-centred bitch you think I am ... " she snickered, "well, I am but I don't have to be, you've shown me that."

"So you're going to do it?"

"I'll be a nursing student in less than a month."

But what will I be. My head was reeling; I had way too much information to compute; I was taking a quick survey of my life to see if there was any place in it for her ... which I knew there was because for the last two days I was having tiny panic attacks when I thought of life without her.

She was studying me, I felt it before I noticed it; when I looked up at her she started laughing, not at me, that was obvious, she was just really, really happy. "So it's a go." There was no question this time, it was a statement.

"I hope you know what you're doing." I brought the sheet back to hide my erection.

When she turned and walked away, I couldn't help but size her up: cotton pyjamas aren't supposed to be sexy but they sure as hell were on her.

She stopped before she left the room and turned back. "You were checking out my ass, weren't you?"

"I was imagining it in stripes and I was thinking that all the women who in the-not-too-distant future might be doing the same aren't the type who think 'no' always means 'no.'

"You worry too much."

"Where are you going?"

"To sign up. You don't think I'd move in with you without your permission?"

The thing about sex with Beda is that there is nothing timid about it: with everything she gives or takes it's like she's done it hundreds of times before and she just knows how to do it or how to take it. It's her instincts — they're fantastic. And another thing I love about her is that she can be loving before sex and certainly after sex but she isn't during sex — it's clear, she makes it obvious: to her sex isn't love-making, it's fun and the more ribald and raunchy the better. But she's still doing it with her top on and that's a piss-off because, sure, I don't trust her at all, but me, I'm the most trustworthy guy I know and I hate it that she thinks I'm bullshitting her when I say that her breast-less chest isn't a turn-off. I want that shirt off, I want her to feel totally free with me. As it is now I think of that shirt as a barrier between us and I want to get past it.

When she came back to the room she wasn't a step into it, still excited, still laughing, when I told her to take it off.

She stopped in her track, the smiles and laughter disappeared. "Not this again."

"It matters now, it matters a whole lot more."

"That doesn't make it any less ugly."

"Take it off."

"No."

"You don't have an option."

Her eyes shifted at this, as if she was looking for an exit plan. "Have you got a hard-on?"

"Of course I have a hard-on, I almost always have a hard-on these days."

"Show me. Get out of bed, stand there and show me."

I did, I didn't see any reason not to ... and it wasn't about to go away, Beda in pyjamas is a killer.

"I'll take my top off but if that thing starts to droop I'll put it back on and I'll never take it off again in front of you. Do you understand? Are you ready for that?"

"I've never said it's going to be a turn on, I've just said it isn't going to be a turn off."

"So when I take my shirt off, you won't be turned off, right? Your willy won't drop."

"That's not fair, what's keeping it up? Expectations. Expectations of what? Seeing and taking your body. Take off all your clothes and you've got a deal; your body excites me, a slight blemish won't register."

She looked at me suspiciously but I think I was winning so I upped the ante. "And when you see I'm right, I get to touch it, OK? ... touch it any way I want, just like I can the other one. Deal?"

"Do you know what you're doing here because if this goes wrong I'm going to be an absolute fucking basket case, you know that."

"Just do it." I wasn't the least bit worried; the woman just gets to me.

We stared at each other for most of a minute then she moved, she brought her hands up, slowly and uncertainly pushing down her bottoms and stepped out of them. She's got fabulous legs and even better hips which I couldn't fully see yet and I couldn't see her thin brown bush, it was still covered by her top ... which she was unbuttoning now. "Last chance. We can put this off for awhile ... think about it ... get used to the idea."

"Don't be a wuss."

She was terrified by the time she got up to the last button. This woman who was just about to steal 5 million pounds from her employer, and dare them to do anything about it, was nearly trembling when the last button was undone. She hesitated a moment to summoned the courage then she jerked her shoulders and let the shirt fall to the floor.

I wouldn't have insisted on this if I wasn't absolutely certain of my reaction to her damaged body and absolutely sure this therapy was essential to her healing. Thing is, the woman turns me on, the idea of her, the expression of her and the composition of her. I get a hard-on just thinking about her.

Her heavy t-shirt clung to her, clearly outlining her breast and the absence of a breast. She hesitated before she started taking it off, this was a big deal to her, as big as her biggest secret. There was fear in her eyes as the t-shirt cleared her head ... and confidence in my prick.

So I hammed it up a bit, showing it off, playing with it, slapping it around. "It's only gotten bigger," I bragged and it had, proof positive of my honesty: her damage wasn't a sexual turn-off even in the slightest.

She was suspicious at first, watching my prick as a scientist might study a delicate empirical experiment; moving closer, bending down scrutinizing for any tiny movement in the angle. Nothing. But she wasn't easily buying it; she had spent her entire adult life utterly convinced that she was irreparably defaced, forever the ugly duckling destined for rejection and ridicule. She wasn't prepared for the good news, didn't know how to take it — with confusion at first then complete calm as if realizing that she had wasted so much time and energy attending to a problem that simply did not exist. She snapped out of it in a minute or so and edged over to the bed, slumped down, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees with her face in her hands and she started to cry, more a blubber than a cry — it was heart wrenching: she had gone through a terror-stricken low to an unimaginable high in seconds.

When I sat down beside her and wrapped my arm around her she turned into me and pushed me down on the bed. "Hold me, Mike, can you just fucking hold me for awhile?"

I lay down beside her wrapping her firmly in my arms. We were about to have sex just a few moments ago, but that impulse seemed long gone now and she confirmed it when she whispered, "God, I'm tired. I was up all night because of you and your fucking conscience and now this: you don't care enough about me to hate my ravaging scars?"

A shock ran through me. I tried to release her, to look at her, to protest but she held on tight and chuckled. "I love you, Mike, I didn't know you existed a few days ago and now I've fallen ass over tea kettle in love with everything about you. But I'm entirely knackered, I couldn't give you a blow job now if I tried. And I don't want to, I want an hour of sleep. OK?"

When I left her, tucking her in, I looked around her flat — I hadn't last night, I was just too pissed off. It's half the fourth floor of an old mansion with amazing views into the city. Her furniture was amazing, too, and her artwork — I didn't know much about this kind of thing but it was all quality stuff, that was obvious — clearly, the woman wasn't bullshitting about money. I wandered into the impeccably clean kitchen and looked into the fridge. It was all but empty.

The key was on a table by the door. I took it, let myself out and went looking for groceries while searching for my inner calm. But I wasn't finding it. A new reality was setting in. Did she really think she could back me into a corner then announce, with a snap of her fingers that she was moving to Canada, moving in with me and taking over my life? Really? And with not a single moment's consultation? It was like The Big Heist: I don't give a shit what you say, I'm doing it, I'm robbing my company then I'm moving in with you.

You don't object to something when you don't understand it and I wasn't understanding her plan as she revealed it with so much excitement. But I got it now. Wonderful woman, wrong time. I hadn't a scintilla of doubt that if we were allowed to date, to get to know each other conventionally, she'd have me eating out of here hand in, not in no time, but pretty close. And that was the problem: there had been no time to get used to the idea of this mammoth jump-change in my life so my conservative side was reacting: my back was up.

She had been sleeping for almost two hours when I got back so I put on some coffee and sent a few emails. It was probably the aroma: the moment the pungent scent reached maximum allure she appeared, leaning against the bedroom doorway, smiling in wrinkled pyjamas. "Have you ever done this? You've got a lot on your mind so when you wake up, one eye pops open, you become conscious and what's in your sub-conscience comes into your conscience one by one: there's a guy in this flat I want to see; I'm quitting my job: I'm moving to Canada; I'm going into nursing: bam, bam, bam bam ... "

"I'm going to steal $5 million."

The smile left. She shouldered herself off the doorway and walked over and stood in front of me. "In future we will make decisions together but I made that decision a long time ago, long before I met you and I made the decision for reasons I've explained. But I guess you don't understand them. Fine. It doesn't have to concern you."

"But it does concern me. Shucked of all the concocted moral principles, it's theft ..."

"It's recompense ..."

"Theft."

She turned away. "To you, not to me and it's my life." She walked to the kitchen, poured herself a mug of coffee then, on her way to her office, she said over her shoulder, "I've got a million things to do before I move, I'm going to start planning."

"I'll go for another walk," I hollered after her, "be back a little later." I left as fast as I could.

And I stayed away as long as I could, well past dinner time, I just aimlessly walked the streets. Before I'd hook up with this woman I'd have to know her a hell of a lot better than I do now. I had one more full day then I could get the hell out of here. I couldn't wait.

If she missed me it didn't show. She was still in her pyjamas, still in her office, still 'planning' I guessed but she was on the phone now. And on the phone for a few other calls over the next half hour when she finally came out. "I've just ordered a pizza. I'm starving. Should be here in 30 minutes."

I'm particular about my pizzas, a lot of people are. I hate pepperoni for instance and demand onions, olives, green peppers and bacon. "What's on it?" I was hungry, too.

"Pepperoni, mushrooms and spinach." Figures. "Do you want a beer? A glass of wine?"

"Do you?" I asked her, walking to the kitchen.

"Love one," she said, disappearing back into her office.

I delivered it to her, taking the opportunity to try to see what she had been up to. She guessed as much. "I've got detailed lists of all the things I have to do, everything from cancelling my utilities to selling my flat, or to put it on a grander scale, everything from applying to your nursing school to applying for Canadian citizenship, might as well get that going from the get-go, as you say."

"That's American."

She didn't hear me, she was too intent on bundling up some papers. "Sit down. Listen. I'll go over my list, see if you can add anything, I don't want to leave anything out."

I sat, I listened, I commented, I suggested — I participated, drinking and eating through it all and all the time wondering when I was going to summoned the courage to stop the insanity. But no. Her enthusiasm and momentum steamrolled over me and I sat there a half-drunk wuss wondering how the hell I was going to tell her.

By phone, I finally decided (with utter relief). I would call her the moment I got home. I've had second thoughts, I'd say, I need time. You're a fantastic woman ... blah, blah, blah ... I'm not ready. Maybe I'd text it.

I wasn't really listening as she continued through her unending list but I didn't have to; she is sharp, she doesn't need my help planning her change of life; she's way better at the logistics than I would be — I'd just let it happen and devote the time required to get it done. She identified the time required and planned accordingly.

If you look at her in a certain way, she isn't all that attractive. She can be a little hard looking, determined, humourless, remote, detached, angry, bitter. She wasn't right now, now she was excited, everything about her was glowing.

"Have you ever been truly overwhelmed like this, where everything is a chaos from which you have to make order ... in a hurry. The last time I felt like this ... entirely overwhelmed, I was in the hospital and machines were blinking, chirping, whirring, people were hurrying in and out of the room or passing by my door peering in at me, the PA system was blaring, the pain was awful, I didn't know if I was going to live or die ... it was just so overwhelming. But excited, too. I've got my period or I'd be all over you."

After reading through her list she moved on to her file cabinet — "This I can do tonight; I have to go through it all ..." I left and went out for yet another walk, this time just a block away where I had noticed a pub. I never drink alone but I was making an exception tonight: I just needed to get away and there was nowhere else to go.

She was still at it when I went to bed, and at it when I woke up: my two fun-filled days in London turned into solitary, aimless walks.

It occurred to me as we took a cab to Heathrow that she was absolutely oblivious to how I was feeling; she never once picked up the vibe that I might not be as ecstatic about her future as she is. I didn't know if she is just that self-absorbed or if it is the overload she talked about, but whatever it was, she babbled on as if neither of us had a care in the world, the one just about to steal $5 million, change countries, etc., the other just about to hook up with a criminal, if she managed to stay out of the slammer.

So the good-bye turned out to be just another entry on her check list: it was hurried, perfunctory and, given that we were to see each other in a week or so, unemotional. In fact, after the kiss it was easy to see she had already moved on to her next To Do.

It was a long, long flight, time enough to rewind my memories almost in real time, certainly time enough to replay the highlights over and over again. And time enough to compose my Dear Beda letter. Well, not quite. I did type out three drafts on my iPad but they weren't close, they didn't evoke that je ne sais quoi that would capture our time together, that would allude to the two ships passing in the night ... but which might meet again, in the right port, at the right time ... in the distant future.