City Planner

I pulled her up so she was sitting on my lap again and roughly pulled her sweater over her head, undid her pants and shoved my fingers down under her panties. A protest? No, complete cooperation: she succumbed instantly, starting her moaning the moment she opened her legs.

When it was over I lifted her up, got out of the chair and dropped her onto it so she was sprawling, her pants and panties still wrapped around one leg, one breast flopping out of her bra. She looked used and abused but she made no effort to recover, instead, when I undid my pants and pushed them down she sat up and leaned forward, "Oh, God, yes," she said.

It was the absolute decadence of the scene that got to me ... and something she had said. When I started stroking she reached for me but, not missing a beat, I pushed her back, kicked her legs opened and drank in the scene. She was mine, she was entirely fucking mine, all I had to do was claim her.

I aimed it at her, I wanted to get it on her bra and I did, but I got it on her neck and chin, too. And then it was over and I was standing stupidly over her, looking down at her with my cock in my hand.

She fell on her knees in front of me and took me in her mouth, not to excite me, to clean me. She sucked for a minute and when she looked up at me I saw her desire. "I fucking love being your slut."

"I hate that word."

"Use whatever word you want; I just fucking love being with you and feeling this way."

The sun was shining into my eyes; I was absently stroking my limp cock still slick with her juices. She was watching me. "I never thought I'd be doing this in front of a girl."

"Why not?"

"Do you think whatever there is between us is only about sex? Has that occurred to you?"

"No, and it isn't."

"It seems like it is, it's pretty much all we've done."

"We're starting out. Can you imagine us starting out without using sex to pull us together? I can't ... anyway, I have all kinds of depth, it's going to take you awhile to find that out ..."

"I can't shove it in any further."

She snickered. "Do you look at much porn?"

She asked this like she was tee-ing up the subject for her own confession so I knew I didn't have to give her much. "Some."

"I used to use quite a lot of it."

"Use?"

"Use it to get off."

"Aren't you suppose to keep that kind of thing a secret until, I don't know, you've been married to a guy for maybe eight years?"

"Everyone does porn."

"Every guy."

"We do it too ... maybe not as much ..."

"Or for as long ... have you ever seen the Casting videos? You strike me as perfect for them ..."

"I do, eh?" She didn't look pleased.

"Great body, willing, no wasting time, lots of ... histrionics."

"The type to get in front of a comer and just do a guy."

I knew she was trying to get me on the defensive so I didn't bite. "Ya."

"How am I supposed to take that?"

"That I find you exciting, for one."

"And I'll do anyone, for two."

"Look, why don't you just tell me when you want a comment from me, otherwise I'll just shut up."

"No, no, whenever you have the observation that I like to fuck strangers in videos, just tell me."

She succeeded, I was on defence. "It was meant as a compliment."

"Oh, that's the way I took it, who wouldn't?"

I had an image of a bunch of guys running from her and had thoughts of joining them. "So, I'm going to get a month of this?"

"Do you really think I'd show up in some guys hotel room for a photo shoot? Do I have that little self respect?"

"No." OK, it was stupid, but I wasn't sure that I wasn't right, she did strike me as an obvious candidate for a casting couch — I am a stranger and she certainly thoroughly did me, I felt like pointing that out but ...

"No, I haven't," she agreed. Then added with a smirk. "But it's one of my fantasies."

We laughed about it at lunch, then window shopped for an hour or so until I told her I had to go home, get changed and go play a touch football game her brother's asked me to. Actually, I was really excited about it — I had been pretty good at real football in my day but that was then, I hadn't played in years and never with flags. She nearly freaked when I told her, then she wanted to come and watch. Not a chance; I could well be making an entire fool of myself.

I didn't say I'd see her after the game.

"You did so."

"No, I said I'd call you and I'm calling you."

"Ya, three hours after the game. You're in a pub, aren't you ... with my brothers."

I needed to put a little distance between us — she was the type who could lure you in, I mean the sex alone could do that. I needed a little distance, a little perspective.

"I'm stalking you." The thought had occurred to me — she was sitting across the desk from me on Monday morning. "What are you working on?" I had a file folder open with paper scattered across my desk. She picked up an 8x10 glossy. "What is he supposed to have done?"

"Rape."

She studied the picture. "This guy didn't rape anyone."

"That's the charge," I reached for the photo, pissed that she was looking at things she wasn't supposed to.

She asked me more about the case. I told her the barebones just to get rid of her. She read my impatience and when I finished she got up. "When am I going to see you again?"

She was wearing a light sweater that clung to her breasts like a second skin and a pleated skirt that a cheerleader might wear. She lifted it casually, high enough so I could see her white cotton panties. "I'm just going shopping for the underwear you want me to get. Any particular colours?"

"Yellow," I said, reflexively ... and stupidly. "I'll see you at your place. I'll bring some take-out?"

She turned like she had just earned a victory then turned back as she got to the door. "He's not guilty you know. I'm not telling you how to do your job but I am telling you that that face did not do that crime. Dig deeper."

She's pretty, but not really, I mean eagles are pretty but they're fierce looking — untamed, untameable. I could see why she's 34 and single: she's bossy, set in her ways and inflexible, any guy could read that immediately. She's like her face — sharp, anxious, cunning, when instead you'd like her to be like her body: willing, capable and ready. Together, the face and body are a mismatch; together they make her seem curiously fragile and vulnerable when she absolutely isn't. Still, I felt I had learned more about women in the last three days than I had in the previous threes decades ... I just didn't know what.

I picked up the photograph and looked at the guy. The case was unwinable, that's why I was given it: no one higher up the ladder wanted this dark stain on their record.

She said I was limping. I wasn't, I was just sore — I hadn't juked and jived in years. But I still could, I hadn't lost my moves; her brothers' were more than impressed.

I wasn't going to tell her about it but I was lying facedown on her bed; she was really rubbing the massage oil into me ... I thought she deserved to know.

The guy in the picture was developmentally challenged, I told her; in another age he would have been called retarded. But he was a fair athlete and came from a good family. Trouble was, he kind of admitted that he did it; there was no physical evidence, he didn't ejaculate, but he was pretty sure he was there and the woman had ID'd him. And he had no alibi, he might have been out running but he wasn't sure. So, everything considered: guilty, everyone agreed, even him.

"Ya, but he didn't do it," she insisted.

"Listen to me!" I hate it when someone else is so fucking right.

Turns out the guy did a lot of running and had this little fitbit thing he was told to carry with him every time he ran. He did, but he didn't know why; didn't know what it was for; didn't know that it recorded his runs, with time, distance and GPS. When I found it, plugged into his computer, I punched in the password he had given me, Musgsssy, his dog; it proved the guy was on the other side of town when it happened. One call and the prosecutor dropped the case. I was a star in the office.

I thought she'd rub it in with the oil, she had reason enough. Instead she said, "good." Good, that was it, then she asked me why I hadn't asked to see her new underwear.

When is the last time I had a new friend? Decades. All the real friends I have I made in grade school, one in high school; I haven't gained a new friend since — I've got a lot of new acquaintances sure, people I do various things with or see occasionally, but I've never found anyone I could totally relax with, like you do with real friends.

That was the problem with feeling my way forward with Erica, neither of us had any recent experience with it. But, really, it's worse than that: neither of us probably wants a new best friend and more than that, neither of us trusts our ability to get one, I know I don't and with her attitude, how could she? So, really, being together was a little uncomfortable and essentially negative. Right from the beginning, I was checking her out every hour or so, sort of objectively, to see what I was learning about her, to see if I could find any reasons to stick around, other than for the sex.

I could see she was changing incrementally. When I met her I thought she was kind of attractive in a very feminine kind of way. I don't think that any more. She's on the cusp of attractive-ness, depending on how you look at her. On the one hand because she's so well built you're impressed, on the other if you take just a head and shoulders shot of her you'd think ... certainly not ugly but no beauty, like I said, on the cusp ... what tips the balance either way is whether you like or don't like the way she acts.

At first, of course, I gave her every possible benefit of the doubt and because of that she seemed kind of attractive. But, you know, she doesn't smile, like ever, and she isn't the least bit cheerful and she doesn't talk about things I like to talk about ... sooooo, ah, let's face it, if she didn't put out like she does I wouldn't be around. Maybe she knew that. Probably did.

But, after that first frantic night together, I was starting to see different things in her. Her apartment is immaculately tidy and clean, that's a plus to me; I like the ways she dresses; she obviously has a good brain and she's highly focussed, I like that, too; I'm not. Also, she listens; she has great parents and neat brothers. And I like her no bullshit quality, but she carries it too far. Her attitude towards sex is way over the top to me, shockingly over the top but I've never liked my attitude to it so I'm keeping an open mind on this one ... but she's right, she's definitely a bit slutty.

Anyway, right now I'm seeing her on the positive side of the cusp, particularly when she hasn't got any clothes on which has been most of the time since I've known her. And that business with the would-be rapist stuck with me. I would have thrown the poor prick to the wolves without her.

But who's kidding who? Four days into it I was still almost entirely interested just in the body and how fantastically willing it was to get me off ... as it did multiple times on each of Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and it was going to get me off on Wednesday, too, all I had to do was finish cooking the meal she insisted I make for her at my place.

My place is a smallish-size house in urgent need of repair. That's why I bought it, as a handy-man special. It's true, I'm not much of a handy-man, although while going to law school I did work for two summers with a couple of friends who refurbished houses, so I knew a little something. But I hadn't done even a bit of the work yet in the six months I've owned the place.

She had a piece of busted drywall in her hand and a very raised eyebrow. I laughed. "I told you it needed work."

"This place is structurally compromised."

"It wouldn't be if you stopped pulling it apart."

She threw the drywall into a corner. "I could have this joint condemned."

She ate a little of what I cooked with a scowl, then pushed it away and jumped to her feet and pulled drywall with a crowbar for three hours then insisted I go home with her at midnight.

And she was there again the next day, waiting for me, pissed that I was late. She got a key out of me before she started in with the wrecking bar and she used the key each of the next few days and on Saturday when she insisted we get out of her warm bed and get to my place at 8 AM her dad and three brothers were there waiting.

It was embarrassing; it was like I had been living in an absolute slum and still would be if it wasn't for her — true, but I really was about to fix it up; that was the point. They didn't look convinced and Erica's rude grimace didn't exactly help.

But, you know what? Nothing that happens around her ever happens without her making it happen and the four of them knew it and didn't think twice about it: they came, not to question, but to work and work they did; they tore at the place like they were being paid in piece work.

It's one thing to rip the place apart, it's quite another to put it back together again, that takes skill and money. I had always planned to refurbish the place over time, so I could do it without a mortgage. It was the end of the day, the place was down to the studs, wreckage was everywhere. "I'll lend you the money," the dad said who had to know I was now pretty much living with his daughter.

"No, no, no, I'm going to look after it. Thanks," I said, expressing both shock and appreciation.

Fine, he understood, then he added, turning to his daughter, "Looks like a good time to use some of your investments." Mercifully she didn't bite.

Erica went home to clean up and cook some dinner, while I took them out for a couple of beers. The boys were good guys, I really liked them. And I really liked the old man too but he was more than a little intimidating. He was lean and hard and stern and focussed and unsmiling — I had naturally thought that the daughter was a yet-to-be-fully developed version of the mother, a very good thing. She isn't. It is from this granite block that the daughter has been chipped, that was now crystal clear to me. But the boys, of course, knew that. When the block got up to take a leak (and pay the bill) one of the boys couldn't wait to lean towards me grinning. "How tough are you?" They all exploded together like it was an in-side joke that couldn't wait to be told. I knew what he meant: their sister was going to need someone like their father to keep her in line.

"She scares me," I admitted, feebly. The moment my words were out they laughed hysterically like they finally had permission to let it all out.

"She's the old man in a skirt ... those two are wired on the same circuit."

Were they laughing at me? Ya, of course they were laughing at me but they were also laughing at the real-time enfeebling of one of their own, I knew that. All three of them had put themselves in my shoes and felt the terror. I knew their laughter was from relief ... that something like this wasn't happening to them. That's why all the laughter suddenly stopped when the old man returned and a long reflective silence ensued — it was kind of awesome that a woman with a tight body and a stern face could assert so much authority and as much control as her progenitor. I would have truly admired it were I not the focus of it.

So with the amplified realization of what a fucking wuss I am it was a depressing ride to her place.

She had the meal ready, of course and after they all left I had my shower, we watched a movie and we had sex for longer than I needed then I lay awake for a couple of hours pretending to be asleep.

I had looked over at her a few times while she was working in the house, quick glances so no one could notice. She was wearing jeans, tight jeans and a plaid shirt that was flecked with drywall dust; her hair was controlled by a bandana. She worked as she lived, with absolute determination and concentration: there was a job to do, she would do it. The guys, I noticed, joked around a bit but when either Big Frank or Erica was in the room with them they were totally quiet and focussed.

So what would have happened if she said, yes, she wanted to put her life's savings into my house? How was I supposed to react to that? And what am I supposed to do with the girl who's home I am now living in; the girl who was busting her ass for me; the girl who they all knew I would be sliding into every chance I got? She had me by the short and curlys, I knew it, they knew it but I really didn't think she did.

It infuriated me I couldn't figure her out and it infuriated me even more to know that she had fully figured me out, her brothers knew that, that's why they were laughing at me. 'How tough are you?' Good question. I think I was going to find out.

Her phone went off the next morning. She was in the bath. I was walking it to her when she told me she was soaking, answer it. I did.

The voice was clearly surprised. "Who are you?"

I told her.

"So you're the reason," she chuckled.

"What reason?"

Erica had a few close friends from childhood she told me. She was just now re-connected with them — "It's always a man," she said, "it's always the absence of a man when we tune out and it's always the acquisition of a man when we tune back in." She invited us, she repeated 'you both' to dinner on Friday night. "Ask her. It's Sharon."

I asked. "Sure, tell her sure, we'd love to ... we would wouldn't we?"

The chuckle was back. "I heard that and I can't tell you how much we're looking forward to meeting YOU." The accent on you was unmistakable. It felt like this Sharon had been talking to the brothers.

How can you tell someone like her is in a good mood ... or a bad mood, for that matter — she always looks so stern? You can only tell by her actions: she gets busy. We did a shopping. I had to go. She insisted. We are living together. She took her time up and down the aisles like it was an event. I could buy beer in 20 seconds; she made a huge production out of it. And we bought things that would never have occurred to me — I didn't need a tool belt; she insisted I did. The whole thing was disorienting — I hate shopping anyway but the way she was going about it was intolerable. I was bloody glad to have a football game I had to go to that afternoon — and it made perfect sense to her that I had to warm-up for more than an hour before I played.

And I was bloody glad I was too busy with work to bother with my house, which I wanted to take a break from anyway. Tearing down takes energy, building back up takes cash and while I had a little I sure didn't have enough to finish it.

And I didn't have a lot of time for her — I showed up late to her place and left early in the mornings so she had to be limited to quickies. She complained, I explained. Work these days had to come first. So how did she fight back, and I knew she was going to fight back? She re-negotiated. The month I had committed to with her was based on spending significant time together each day. We weren't; she was being cheated and I was cheating myself out of getting to know her better. She demanded three months which I had to agree to, mainly because it took the heat off me rebuilding my place, but not by much.

I hadn't been to my place in weeks and it was gnawing at me. I had to do something about it and soon because the place was totally unliveable and I was pretty sure I was going to need it soon ... for myself.

We were driving to Sharon's place on Friday night ... she lives not too far from my house, we would drop in and I could develop a bit of a plan, my idea, I wanted an excuse for something to do when things got a little too frantic around her.

I knew something was up before I opened the front door. The door was the same but it was in a new casing. Even a little prepared when I opened the door I stopped stunned. She pushed me in.