Dale's Women Ch. 12

Only after several minutes of close hugging did he take her face in both hands and plant a soft kiss on her mouth.

He pulled back and said, "I love you, Bethany."

Her eyes shone as she said, "I love you, Dale."

She slipped out of his arms, got into the car, and drove off.

*

So what was Bethany going to say at the next meeting of the Asexual Club?

The whole thing now seemed ludicrously funny, but she knew that in some ways—and for reasons she didn't quite understand—Bridget Parsons and Marcia Caton were even more serious about the club than she was. They had met about once a month for close to two years, during their junior and senior years at college; and because they were all three remaining in the area, they saw no reason why they couldn't continue to meet.

In fact, from what they'd heard of the working world, there was an even greater need for a club that could bolster them in celibacy than in college. They'd heard too many stories about male bosses pressuring female underlings for sex; men making all kinds of remarks about women's breasts or butts as they hung around the water cooler; and the pressure to be "normal" and have a boyfriend, no matter how dopey or irritating or violent he was, was even greater now than in school. You met a guy, you slept with him, you married him, you had kids—that was still the expectation even in these post-feminist days.

But the wholesale revision in Bethany's outlook left her feeling both a little confused and a little sorry for her two compatriots, who couldn't imagine that such a wonderful man as Dale existed. She knew that both of them were hiding some kind of secret in their pasts that led them to think of themselves as asexual, but they'd never been forthcoming as to what exactly that was. So much for honesty and openness! Well, she couldn't force them to reveal awkward or embarrassing incidents in their lives, could she?

But what would they say when she—the president of the Asexual Club—revealed that she had tumbled so far off the wagon?

Well, there was no way to avoid a confession, and a confrontation.

She'd met Dale several more times before the scheduled meeting, in early September—and each session had been more stimulating than the last. I guess I'm making up for lost time! she thought to herself, giggling. But more seriously, she realized how profoundly she and Dale shared not just their bodies but their minds and souls. They had known each other only a few weeks, but they already sensed that there was a deep connection that went way beyond common interests or even common values.

So as she prepared to receive Bridget and Marcia at her little apartment on that Thursday evening, Bethany thought about the most sensible approach. Truth is always best. They'll just have to get used to the idea that I'm not asexual anymore.

She didn't have long to wait. Almost from the moment the two women stepped in the door, they knew something was different.

Bethany looked critically at the two of them. They were both pretty, although they both could stand a certain makeover in terms of clothes, cosmetics, and the like. They, of course, would squawk and say, "I'm not dolling myself up for the male gaze!"—unaware that that "dolling up" was really for themselves and not for anyone else. Bridget was a few inches taller than her, a few pounds heavier, but still pretty slender. She had a pixie-like triangular face, framed with dark brown hair, that would have been close to beautiful if she didn't look like a frightened rabbit all the time—or maybe a frightened depressed rabbit. She also seemed almost embarrassed at her fairly large bust (not huge by any means—36C, as she once admitted with blushes), and she sensed that Dale would be entranced by her tightly curving bottom. (He really did have a fetish for women's derrières!) Her eyes glinted as she envisioned her man enfolding the timorous girl in his arms and "having his way with her."

Marcia was a somewhat different proposition. Tall for a woman—nearly five foot eight—she was also what would charitably be called "pleasingly plump." But whatever deficiencies she might have in her figure—and maybe they weren't deficiencies at all, since plenty of men would have liked to get hold of her expansive bosom and wide hips—were made up by a face that was almost heart-rendingly delicate: crystal-clear blue eyes, rosy cheeks, a soft jawline, and the whole package wrapped in hair so blond that it was almost white. But she too tended to frown more than she smiled.

Marcia seemed to be the one who noticed the change in Bethany first. Eyeing her like a specimen under a microscope, she noticed that Bethany's usually sallow complexion had given way to a radiant glow she'd never seen before. Bethany had also put on more provocative clothing than she usually wore—she'd already been influenced by Dale, who wanted to show her off in public as a succulent and desirable female.

So it was Marcia who barked, almost before she said hello: "What's the matter?"

Bethany was taken aback both by the stark question and the tone of voice Marcia used. "Wh-what do you mean? Nothing's the matter."

"Come on," Marcia said harshly, "spit it out. Something's happened."

Bethany just gave Marcia a deer-in-the-headlights look.

Marcia seemed suddenly struck by inspiration. "Was it in Europe? Did something horrible happen to you on your trip?" Then, with a wide-eyed gasp as if contemplating the worst, "Omigod, Bethany! Don't tell me you were—" She couldn't finish the sentence, or the thought.

"Don't be ridiculous," Bethany said scornfully, trying to regain her composure. "The trip was fine. I had a great time."

"Then what is it? Something's the matter, girl. I know you too well."

Bethany actually doubted that. After all, they really hadn't hung out much in college, only being in one or two classes together and having these monthly meetings of the club.

Suddenly she leaped up from the sofa where she had been sitting and moved over to the small supply of alcohol. She needed something, at least; and she suspected the others did too—or would after they heard what she had to say.

Without a word she started doling out some pear brandy. None of the girls drank a lot of hard liquor, and the mere fact that Bethany was serving it now made Bridget and Marcia feel as if something momentous was about to happen.

"Here," Bethany said as she handed two glasses to her friends, "you'd better drink this."

Marcia took the drink and sat down heavily on an easy chair. "I don't think I'm going to like this." She wasn't referring to the beverage.

Bridget, who had not said a word up to this point, sat gingerly on the sofa as if it might bite her in the posterior. "Oh, God, Bethany," she said, "just tell us what's going on. I can't bear the suspense."

"All right," Bethany said heavily, sitting on the sofa as far away from Bridget as possible. With a huge sigh she went on: "I met this guy—"

"I knew it!" Marcia exploded in a kind of bitter triumph. "I bet he r—"

"He didn't do anything of the kind," Bethany said severely, scowling ferociously at Marcia. "I—I wanted him to."

"You what?" Marcia cried. "Oh, girl, how could you? You of all people! You're the one who founded this club so that we could keep ourselves pure forever."

"Hey," Bridget said, getting angry, "I didn't say anything like that! I never said I'd keep myself 'pure'—whatever that means—my whole life. That's absurd. I've always thought that I'd marry someday, have children, whatever."

Marcia was staring at Bethany, aghast. Her lower lip began to tremble, and she seemed on the point of bursting into tears. She swallowed a big gulp of the brandy, wincing in pain as it burned its way down her throat.

"Listen, people," Bethany said urgently, "you got me all wrong—you got thus club all wrong. All we were ever trying to do was to combat this horrible oversexualization of our society—and, even more, the way a lot of guys just look at us as a bunch of body parts that they want to possess for their own pleasure. We don't want guys to ogle us, we don't want them to try to feel us up—and we especially don't want guys, or anyone, to judge us purely for our looks rather than our brains or our character. That's all. We're not about being celibate for the rest of our lives. I've now come to think that's really unhealthy—it warps you, makes you crabby and ill-tempered. It's not natural.

"What we all want, girls," she continued, "is to meet the right guy—the guy who will respect us for who we are, not for our bra size or the number of times we let them stick their things into us. And I think I've met the right guy."

Bethany sat back, reasonably proud of her speech. Of course, I've not told the whole truth. If I went on to say that this guy also services my aunt and her best friend, well, then there would really be fireworks!

As it was, there was a stunned silence, as both Marcia and Bridget sat stock-still, the drinks in their hands forgotten.

At last Bridget said timorously, "So who is this guy?"

Bethany leaped at the chance to talk about her lover. "He's a wonderful man, really he is! His name is Dale Willis, and he graduated from Cambridge College in Ridgefield, so I guess he's about two years older than us."

"What does he do for a living?"

"Well," Bethany said with some embarrassment, "he doesn't have a job—doesn't need one. He's an orphan, and he lives off the money he inherited from his parents."

"Oh, that's so sad!" Bridget cried. She had a natural sympathy toward all creatures, human and otherwise.

"I know, but he manages to keep pretty busy." Oops! That's a double entendre, if only my friends knew it! "Anyway, he's really the most incredible guy I've ever met—kind, sensitive, considerate, funny, respectful, just a doll!"

Bethany lapsed into silence, blushing a bit. She feared she might have painted Dale as an impossibly perfect icon of manhood.

"So," Bridget went on with vast hesitation, "you, um, you let him—?"

"I didn't let him," Bethany said sharply. "We came to a mutual agreement that that's what we wanted to do."

Okay, maybe that's just a bit of a fib. But there's no way I can tell them that my first meeting with him was when I saw him naked in my aunt's bedroom.

"What was it like?" Bridget said, as if asking about some dangerous trek into the wilds of Africa.

"I can't even begin to describe it," Bethany said fervently. "You can't imagine how wonderful it is when you have a man like that to do it with. It really takes you into another world. And you feel so much more like a woman than you've ever felt before. And by that I don't mean something weak and passive and yielding—but something strong and dynamic, using your body, your mind, and your emotions to transport yourself to a level of ecstasy that you can't even begin to imagine."

Bethany thought she might have gone a little overboard, but she really did feel that way.

But clearly not everyone else did.

Marcia, who had been listening to the other girls' conversation with a kind of mingled horror and disgust, now slammed her glass on the end table next to her and said, "I think I'm going to puke."

And with that, she got up and left the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

The echoes of that slam took several seconds to die down. It was then that Bethany said: "Well, that didn't go over so well with her."

Bridget burst out into a nervous, embarrassed chortle. "Oh, Bethany, she's always been the most uptight of the three of us. She's really a man-hater. I don't think she can even bear to speak to a man."

"Well," Bethany said cynically, "she's going to have a hard time getting through life that way. Women don't run everything, you know."

Bridget put her own glass down on the coffee table. She looked up plaintively at Bethany and said, "So what happens now?"

"What do you mean?" Bethany said, confused.

"Well, I mean, the whole reason for our club seems to have gone down the drain. You've kind of—lapsed, haven't you?"

"I don't think of it that way," Bethany said with a frown.

"But you know what I mean," Bridget said. She had always been a little afraid of her friend, who seemed so much more sure of herself than she was. So if she could "fall," then where could Bridget look for support?

"Yes, I think I do," Bethany said evenly. "So I guess there's only one thing left to do."

"What's that?"

"You need to spend a night with Dale."

"What?"

"I think," Bethany said with deep sympathy but also great urgency, "you need to find out what it's all about. At least get a taste of it so you can decide for yourself whether you like it or not. You can't make a decision based on no knowledge. You know what I mean?"

"But he's your boyfriend!" Bridget yelped. "I couldn't—"

"I wouldn't trust anyone else," Bethany said. "My acquaintance with guys isn't very extensive, as you know, so I can't think of anyone else who could show you what it's like to be with a nice, sweet, kind-hearted man who will treat you the way you deserve to be treated."

"Oh, no, Bethany, I couldn't . . ."

"Sure you could. It's the easiest thing in the world. I want you to do this."

"Bethany, please—"

"Bridget, this is for your own good. I mean it."

"You can't be serious!"

"I've never been more serious in all my life."

"But—but what do you want me to do? Go over to his house and—"

"Yes, go to his house. He'll take it from there."

"But I don't even know him!"

"In a way that's better. He'll be the quintessential man, you'll be the quintessential woman. Kind of like Adam and Eve."

"But I don't know what to do!"

"He'll teach you. He's good at that."

"What if I don't want to do some of the things he wants?"

"Then you tell him so. He'll say, 'Fine, we'll do something else.' He's always been the perfect gentleman."

"Bethany, I don't know . . ."

"I do. Go over there tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow! That's so soon!"

"It's a Friday night. You don't have to work the next day. You two can have a nice breakfast in the morning."

Bridget, even though she was sitting down, seemed to be wavering, as if she was going to faint. Bethany, noticing her friend's discomfiture, slid over along the sofa and wrapped her arms around her.

"Bridget, I know this is the right thing to do—for you, for him, and for me. I like to share him." Yes—with my aunt and with Lois. "He's such a splendid example of masculinity that it would be unfair for me to keep him to myself. And I know he'll be nice to you."

"If you say so," Bridget said in a small voice.

"I do say so. Here, I'll give you his address, and you go over there tomorrow evening. Maybe around ten. He'll be expecting you."

"Expecting me? You already talked this over with him?"

"Of course! He actually wasn't so sure he wanted to do that, but I convinced him it was something you and he should do."

Bethany scribbled Dale's address on a piece of paper and handed it to Bridget. She took it absently and, like a zombie, got up and walked out of the apartment.

Now Marcia, on the other hand, is going to take a bit more persuasion.