Courtship for the Clueless

"Well, when you're back, stud, we'll make up for lost time. Meanwhile, you take care of yourself, hear?"

"I'm looking forward to being with you again too. Home is where the heart is, sweetheart. I'll try and call you from Houston. But remember, if you really need me, you can call my cell any time and I will get back to you just as quickly as I can. Bye for now, sugar."

"Not goodbye, but au revoir, stud. Call when you can." Click.

Roger returned his phone to his pocket with a feeling of satisfaction.

True to her word, Tiffany drove to Roger's house that afternoon. She got out of the car and gave it a slow walk-around.

The house was a typical country place from the days when large families ran farms, with a full wraparound porch on the first floor and a screened sleeping porch on three sides of the second. There were flower beds planted away from the house and trees on the south and west sides, far enough away not to worry about them falling on the house in a storm but near enough to shade it in summer while letting the sun shine through its empty branches in winter to warm the place. The windows were triple-glazed instead of the common two-pane sash plus storms typical of old farmhouses. The siding was dark green shingles, either cement or asbestos, and the roof was bright textured copper. She reflected that if Roger had done all the work himself, he was a lot more skilled with tools, as well as his tool, than she had given him credit for.

She went onto the porch and walked around the house, checking the windows. All were intact, as were the windows into the basement. She checked the doors; all were locked. She crossed the yard to the barn that back in the day had housed horses and cows. Two heavy-duty hasps and big industrial-strength padlocks secured the huge sliding doors, and a stout chain was looped through the door handles with a third. A standard size solid wood door alongside the big ones had both a regular spring lock and a deadbolt, and the windows were bordered with the old style silver foil tape that had been state of the art for alarm systems 25 or 30 years ago. Through the window next to the door, which was surprisingly clean, she could see into the interior. There were workbenches, closed cabinets, and beyond them through a door that opened into the main part of the barn, two unidentifiable somethings concealed under tarpaulins.

She turned around at the sound of gravel crunching in the drive. A county sheriff's cruiser had just pulled in. The youngish deputy behind the wheel who was a regular at the Bird & Bottle got out. He recognized her and walked over.

"Hi there, Tiff. What brings you out here?"

"Same as you, I expect, Wendell. Roger asked me to stop by the house and check on it now and then. I guess he figured the more folks he asked to look the place over, the safer it would be."

"He told the Sheriff that he's heard the meth-heads have taken to breaking into homes that look like the residents are away and asked him to have us drive by on no set schedule while he's gone for the next three weeks. Did you see anything amiss?"

"No. All the doors are locked, and all the windows are intact. The barn, too. There's something under a tarp in there, but that's all I saw."

"Oh, that's just a car he's restoring. I've bumped into Chamberlain at auto swap meets looking for early 1960s Dodge trim and interior pieces. I'm rebuilding a '69 Mustang, and he's put me onto some neat deals now and again."

"Did he say what he's working on?"

"Just that it's a Dart. He seemed kind of glum the last meet I saw him at. Finally got the engine out of the car, he said, and the guy in Oklahoma that sold it to him wasn't lying; the block really is cracked. Now he has to decide what to replace it with. He said he knows what he wants to do, but blessed if he can find what he needs to do it at a price he can afford. Didn't say what, though."

"Well, I ought to be going. You coming in to watch the race on Saturday?"

"You betcha, Tiff! It's always more fun with a crowd around you. See you then." The two got into their cars and went their separate ways, Tiffany idly speculating on what kind of a Dodge would make a guy like Roger, who didn't seem like a natural-born gearhead, go through the agony -- for she knew it was agony, having helped her high school boyfriend in his quest to restore a '77 "Bandit" Trans Am -- of trying to turn a battered old hulk into a showstopper. When he called late Saturday morning, she asked him.

"So what kind of a Dodge do you have under the tarp in the barn?"

"How do you know I have a Dodge in there?"

"One of the deputies who drinks at the bar is a swap meet acquaintance of yours, and he told me you were just before replacing an engine with a cracked block, but you hadn't made up your mind what to replace it with. So give. What are you working on?"

To her surprise, Roger sang softly, " 'But parked in her rickety old garage, is a brand new, shiny red Super Stock Dodge ...' To be specific, a 1962 second generation Dodge Dart Super Stock coupe. That was the year they downsized the model from the 1950s standard size car and completely redesigned the new mid-sized body so it didn't look like an underfed Desoto. She's quite curvy and the designer put lines on her that suggest tail fins without actually being tail fins, and the front fender lines are evocative of wings. One thing I really like is the side trim on the rear quarters; they look like the warp coils of a starship.

"Which is appropriate, considering she left the factory with a 415 horsepower engine and was lightened up from the preceding model year. And therein lies my problem. You see, I'm not trying to rebuild her to original specs, which would not be very hard. You can still get the Max Wedge 415 cubic inch engine she came with, like the one with a cracked block I took out of her; but that's not what I'm after. I want to rebuild her to the specs The Beach Boys cite for The Little Old Lady From Pasadena's car: 'a 4 speed stick and a 426 now.' That means I need to find the right Hemi engine and transmission from '64 or '65, and even here in NASCAR country that isn't easy. I'm hoping I might get lucky out in Arizona; Desert Valley Auto Parts out by Phoenix has all sorts of things in their yard."

"You've given this a lot of thought. But why build The Little Old Lady From Pasadena's car out of a '62 if the song makes it clear she's driving a later model?"

"Because the second generation '62 Dart is the only pretty one they ever made. The first gen Darts look like the last gasp of the 1950s dinosaurs, and the third generation Darts look like baleen whales even though they'll get up and scoot with the right drivetrain in 'em. They can leave a stock Mustang or 'Vette from the same era in the dust. I want a sleeper that will surprise the hell out of the Pretty People in their fancy muscle cars."

"Roger, it sounds to me like you're carrying a grudge from high school. What did they do to you that going on 20 years later you still want to rub their faces in the dirt?"

She heard him sigh, and then chuckle, a little sadly. "I never thought of it like that, Tiffany. Dad was a career Army man; retired as a sergeant major. Went on to a second career at his local Chrysler dealership as the supervisor of their repair shop. He's a master mechanic who can make anything piston-engined sit up, roll over, and dance on its hind legs, and he can tweak 'em so they are a lot better than what left the factory. When I was in high school, he helped me make one MGB that ran out of three that didn't, including transplanting the aluminum V8 engine of a totaled MGB-GT into my car to replace the iron four-banger it came with. But in 1994 in Columbus, Georgia, little British sports cars were so uncool even the motorheads teased me. I thought I was long since over that, but maybe not."

"What happened to it?" His voice hardened.

"An ex ran away to New York with it, and my MGB disappeared. She claimed it was stolen, but knowing what I know about her now that I couldn't see back then, I think she just had some friends of hers fake up a salvage title, registered it under her name, and sold it. It's gone, anyway."

"I'm sorry, sweetie. Didn't mean to dredge up bad memories."

"You can't get to our age without having some kind of a past, sugar pie. How else would we acquire the kind of experience that lets us appreciate each other and makes our being together such a joy?"

"There is that. And I am so looking forward to your getting back here. What color nail polish and lipstick do you like, stud, since I won't be wearing much of anything else?"

"I'm just your basic pedestrian male in that department, I suppose. Bright scarlet, that wet look stuff, the kind of thing Marilyn and Jane Russell used in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. It made them look to me anyway like they were on the hunt, eager and horny as hell. They say men are supposed to canalize their tastes based on what the ideal of feminine beauty is at the time when they reach puberty, but the sloppy-hairdo, tousled-grunge, smeared-makeup look never appealed to me at all. I have always preferred the glamour look, and especially that of the great beauties of American movies. You know, baby, if you had lived in that era, you'd have been right up there on the screen with them."

"With a name like mine, more likely I'd have been strutting around in a merry widow corset, black sheer pantyhose, stiletto heels, and bunny ears at a Playboy Club. But it's sweet of you to say so."

"If you'd been a Playboy Bunny, some rich Texas oilman would have fallen for you and put a ring on your finger, for sure. The Bunny defined American feminine desirability for an entire generation. Still does, in Japan; they have these clubs where Japanese women called 'bunnygirls' dress in costumes inspired by the Bunnies, provide companionship for Japanese businessmen, and promote products in the bars and clubs. It's an evolution of their 'hostess culture,' or perhaps a subgroup of it."

"Well, I'll be happy to play hostess to you, stud. And you won't even need to buy me a drink; I have that bottle of champagne we never got around to opening the last time you took me home on ice in the fridge, waiting for us. Hurry back, Roger, I can hardly wait, sweetie."

"Just as soon as I possibly can," he promised. "Bye for now."

5.

Over the course of the book tour, Tiffany and Roger managed to connect over the phone about every third day. They talked about all sorts of things; what was going on at the Bird & Bottle, what they liked to eat, amusing anecdotes from the DIY conventions, Roger's discovering that he had fans in the Southwest who appreciated the wry humor he injected into his how-to books, Tiffany's delight at winning a bet with one of her regulars that resulted in her introduction to a big name NASCAR driver and subsequently wheedling the hood from a wrecked car out of him and then persuading him to sign it, that sort of thing. She always returned the conversation to Roger's homecoming sooner or later, though, hinting at the night of passion awaiting them. He didn't mind that at all.

Although neither of them discussed it with the other, they both noticed changes in their personal behavior. Each wondered at this in the wee hours alone in bed when humans find it difficult to sleep.

Tiffany had allowed herself to be picked up by a long-haul driver who had been stuck in Gardendale overnight when his load wasn't ready on time. They had gone back to his motel room with a bottle of whiskey and a box of rubbers. Although he was well-hung, had good endurance, knew how to use his cock, and had brought her to climax, to her surprise she hadn't enjoyed the experience. She'd left as soon as he had fallen asleep after completing the act.

As she had driven home, she had wondered at this. It wasn't like she was a blushing virgin; far from it. She had had many partners since she lost her cherry to the high school boyfriend she loved -- or at least, had thought she did. But although that trucker had scratched her sexual itch and gotten her off, that was all he had done. It was like a piece was missing, something she had never really had ... until she had met Roger.

For his part, Roger knew very well he was no pick-up artist and never had been. He relied on patience and personality rather than looks to attract bedmates. His public persona was affable enough, he looked trim and fit though not a dedicated gym rat, and had a face that wouldn't frighten dogs or small children. Generally, if he really wanted to have sex he could find a willing partner, but ever since he had passed that significant 30 year birthday he had been looking for more than a roll in the hay or a vacation romance.

Over the years women had danced the seduction quadrille with him from time to time for a variety of reasons. His most recent dance partner had been an event coordinator at the Boulder Home and Garden Fair. They had enjoyed dinner together at a restaurant near the venue, and it had not been a long step from there to his hotel room and bed. She was skilled in the erotic arts. She had left him in no doubt that he had thoroughly satisfied her and given her all that she wanted. And yet, it had felt somehow tawdry. After she left with a nibble of the earlobe and a whispered, "See you next year, darling," he had climbed into the shower and soaked for almost an hour, using up two bars of hotel soap scrubbing himself. She had been willing, even eager; a sexual athlete in her prime who delighted in her orgasms and in giving powerful climaxes to her partner ... but for some reason it had felt mechanical, not like the joyous completions he achieved with Tiffany. He gave this a great deal of thought on the flight to Oklahoma for the last round of bookstore appearances and the final DIY show, where he would be doing a couple of panels with some of the lesser stars of the home improvement networks.

On Sunday, the Oklahoma City Remodeling Show at last behind him, Roger bade farewell to Kathy, who over the course of their three weeks on the road had calmed down and mellowed out considerably. She had proven herself a good writer-handler and had gotten on admirably with the show organizers and bookstore owners, a talent that would stand her in good stead as she worked her way up the corporate ladder on the editing side of the house. She would be flying back to New York on the red-eye. Roger had a flight the next morning that would put him into Birmingham just after noon, weather permitting. An experienced traveler resigned to the vagaries of airlines, he was sourly amused by the fact he had to fly to Dallas first with an hour's layover before he could get back to The Magic City. The thought crossed his mind, as it had before, that taking flying lessons and buying his own light plane might not be a bad idea. It would free him from the tyranny of flight schedules and the indignities inflicted on travelers by the TSA. Not a bad idea, especially if he could get another book out of it. Hmmm ...

His mind ping-ponged between the idea of writing "Private Plane Flying for the Fed-Up" and the welcome he might expect from Tiffany from the time the airliner lifted off in Oklahoma to the time it finally landed at Birmingham-Shuttlesworth International. After retrieving his rolly-bag from the carousel, he caught a shuttle bus to the long term parking area where his faithful Jeep waited for him. With the engine warming up after three weeks in hibernation, he phoned Tiffany.

"Roger! Are you back?"

"Uh-huh. I've picked up my luggage and I'm sitting here in the long-term lot waiting for the air conditioning to take hold before I pull out. I figure I'm about half an hour away from you."

"Uhhh ... sweetie, could you make it an hour, please? Pretty please? I'd like to have everything perfect for you, and there are a couple of things I need to do before you get here."

"Not a problem. I'll find a place and eat lunch. Would two o'clock-ish suit you better?"

"Much. I so want this to be just right for you, stud. I'll be waiting for you, ready and eager. 'Bye!"

She switched off the phone and walked to the bathroom in the nude, looking critically at herself in the mirror wall. Before going in on Friday, she had gone to the Lush Life Beauty Spa and gotten herself a complete body waxing to remove all of the hair on her torso, arms, and legs. Her skin was back to normal now, no redness or bumps anywhere. She had gotten up early this morning and was the first appointment of the day at Lush Life for a mani-pedi and full body moisturizing treatment, followed up by a special makeup job on eyes and lips. The naked woman looking back at her in the mirror had a blood red mouth and nails with a glossy liquid finish that made her look like a vampiress who had just finished feeding, and eyes subtly done with extended lashes and cat's-eye makeup. She decided she liked the effect a lot; she hoped that Roger would as well. Her nipples crinkled as she imagined him seeing her like this for the first time. She turned back into the bedroom, taking a set of silk sheets from the bottom drawer to make up the bed.

Roger parked in the driveway a few minutes before two. He had stopped at Porky's Pride, which despite the implications of its name and its excellent barbequed pork also grilled what he thought were the best steaks in the Birmingham area. Despite his excitement at the assignation he hoped was waiting for him, he had forced himself to get outside of a small rare steak smothered in mushrooms, with potatoes au gratin on the side and lemon sherbet for dessert. He had taken the time to shave again, brush his teeth and gargle in the men's room before continuing on to Tiffany's. Holding a worn velvet case in his left hand, he knocked on her door.

"It's open, Roger. Do please come in."

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and was instantly stricken speechless. Across the room, a goddess waited. Her ash-blonde hair was brushed until it glowed. Her scarlet lips looked wet, as did the pointed nails on her fingers and the toenails peeping out of her high-heeled sandals. Her eyes were hypnotic, and her pink nipples were hard buttons pointing at him on her glorious breasts. Her pussy was swollen, wet, and ready, and the air conditioner wafted the odor of aroused woman mixed with expensive perfume his way. She looked out from under her long lashes.

"Do you like what you see, darling?"

The jewelry case slipped from his hand as he crossed the space between them in an instant, crushing her to him, her magnificent boobs flattening against him as he kissed her with an urgency bordering on desperation. She responded to his arousal, lewdly rubbing her pudenda over the man-meat waiting for her under his slacks, leaving a moist trail behind. As their tongues danced, she worked to unbutton his shirt; sensing what she was about, he kicked off his loafers and used his toes to work off his socks. His shirt fell to the carpet and she worked belt, waist button, and zipper, pushing pants and boxers down his legs so he could step out of them. Breaking the kiss, she knelt before him and slid a condom onto the rampant penis waiting for her before she took it into her mouth and began to suck. Although she would not have thought it possible, it grew even longer, thicker, and harder. When she tried to deep-throat him, it was too much; she gagged and had to pull back, strings of saliva dripping from the corners of her mouth onto her tits.

As if the choking sounds had been a trigger, Roger squatted, drove his shoulder into her midsection, and stood up with Tiffany hanging over his back. He took a few steps and dumped her face first onto the couch, where she raised a leg in invitation, her labia shining in the sunlight. With one powerful stroke, he buried his cock in her cooze.