Might Have Been Ch. 07

I hang up the phone, and feel Tasha's stare knifing my back. "What?" I ask.

"That was Dave?"

"Yes, he's in town and we're getting together."

"He invited me?"

Fuck. He hadn't, knowing if he had that Tasha would wreck the night. Tasha overheard the conversation. I can't lie and tell her she was invited. "You and Dave don't get along."

"He's supposedly your best friend, and he doesn't invite me?"

"You don't want to come."

"How do you know?"

"You kicked him out of the apartment." And I let you, I think to myself in shame. Tasha had known about Dave's love of giving people sobriquets like "The Exquisite Sarah" or "That Motherfucker Wallensky". Tasha asked what he would call her, and after staying with us for a week, Dave had replied, "Psycho Girlfriend From Hell."

It hadn't gone over well.

Tasha considers. "Maybe he wants to apologize."

Fat chance of that. "Tasha, I need to see him."

"Why doesn't your best friend want to spend time with your girlfriend?"

"We aren't having this conversation."

Smug cattiness isn't working for her, so she switches tactics abruptly -- or her emotions switch them for her. She cringes into herself, wringing her hands. "He hates me. He's going to tell you to leave me."

"No he isn't," I lie.

"Yes, he is, and you won't come back. You always take his side." The tears are starting. She starts putting away silverware, trying to keep busy with her hands. This is the trap she sets. She wants me to choose. Am I a monster to my girlfriend, or a traitor to my best friend? Every time I choose her, she gains confidence in my love for her, and I die a little inside.

I try to avoid the trap. "I'm going."

"He hates me because he thinks I'm bad for you. He's right. I'm a bad person."

"You aren't a bad person."

She is sobbing now, holding a fork. "Yes, I am."

I realize the significance of the fork, and the bottom drops out of my stomach. She is in what she calls a Black Mood, and I have boxed her in. She is desperate and holding a sharp object. I try to reassure her, and step closer, to prevent what I know will happen.

She moves too quick. The fork stabs down into the flesh of her palm below the thumb. She lets go. Her instrument of self-mutilation stands there, quivering for a second, and then falls to the floor, followed by a rain of blood.

Tasha releases a scream that shatters my soul.

I am not going to see Dave tonight. I am instead taking my crazy girlfriend to the ER, where I will end up paying a thousand dollars because she doesn't have insurance, money, or a credit rating. The hospital staff will glare at me, suspecting I did it.

When I call Dave to explain I can't make it, I try to cover for Tasha, but he sees through it. "What did she do this time? Pills?"

I don't answer.

"Fuck, man. For the sake of all that is holy, you need to leave her."

"It will kill her."

"Justified self-defense. She is killing you."

He doesn't understand. I say nothing.

"Lance, I don't think it's a good idea for me to call you anymore. It just gets you in trouble or gets her hurt. If you decide to leave her, call me, and I swear to God I'm on the next flight out to help you pack."

I pretend the doctor needs to talk to me, and I say goodbye.

Tasha wins again.

My best friend hasn't talked to me since. I did receive an invitation to the wedding, but it was an invitation for one, which sent Tasha into a rage. I didn't attend.

I jump the fuck out, hating her -- hating myself.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

March 3, 2006

It's the Friday night of our first date. We are eating at a French cafe. She wears a tight royal blue blouse with a short black skirt, nylons, and heels.

She is giving me her biography. "My mom is from Afghanistan. She was studying in Europe when the Russians invaded in 1979. My dad is half-French, half-Vietnamese. They met in college."

"Where are they now?"

"He's an economist for the World Bank in DC. My mom works for a human rights group that is trying to get rid of land mines."

I suspect this subject has a tragic history involving dead relatives that would be a poor first-date conversation, so I change the topic. "Granted, I get my knowledge from Jay Ward cartoons, but isn't Natasha a Russian name? How did they select that?"

"My mother taught herself English by comparing French and English versions of War and Peace. Natasha is the main female character in the book, and mom loved her. She thought it was a western name. Dad went along because he liked Rocky and Bullwinkle."

I laugh. "I think I might like your father. What else can you tell me?" Our dinner had finished.

"What do you mean?"

"I want to get to know you. I want to know what created this wonderful person sitting across from me, whose only flaws are loves of Henry Miller and trashy romantic comedies."

Her smile drops with her gaze. "I have more flaws than that."

"Impossible. You're perfect."

"My last boyfriend didn't think so. He dumped me the day after Valentine's Day." That was shortly before I first saw her, which explains why she was sad, and why I had been lucky enough to catch her in the brief window in which a beautiful woman remains single.

Ex-boyfriends are another crappy topic for a first date. "Nah, you're just too smart. Most guys can't take that." My challenge is implicit.

"How about you?"

"I give as good as I get."

Tasha smirks. "Sounds like we might have a fun night then." She blushes and her mouth opens in shock. "Oh my God, I can't believe I said that!"

I keep a stone face for two seconds, and then announce, "Check please!"

She cracks up laughing, still blushing.

Tasha owns a four-year-old Lexus and drives us to her place. She lives alone in a well-furnished apartment in a nice building. The car and the apartment all smell of family money. I take note of Tasha's jewelry, and suspect those aren't cubic zirconia dangling from her ears.

She takes me by the hand and shows me her apartment. Despite the furnishings, it has the temporary and personalized appearance of a college dorm room. Small art prints are scattered on the walls. Escher. Van Gogh. Duchamp. Warhol's Elvis. She has a desk with some psychology textbooks.

I stop in front of a collage containing photos of Halong Bay, Chartres Cathedral, and the Buddhas of Bamiyan.

"Vietnam, France, and Afghanistan," I say, pointing to each picture in turn. "A reminder of where your parents came from?"

She nods, beaming with pleasure that I recognized the pictures. She squeezes my hand.

I take a cursory scan of her bookshelves, and stop. I notice they are mostly paperbacks, some stacked three deep. They cover the bottom three feet of her walls all around the living room. She has a larger bookcase featured more prominently, stacked with hardcovers and trades.

She sees me survey her collection, and she awaits my reaction. Her books are important to her, and she wants my approval.

Bookshelves tell more about who a person is than the photos on their wall. Books show the person's past, present and future -- a paper record of everything that once interested them and everything they are trying to be. The sheer breadth and quality of the titles catches my eye, as does the utter lack of organization. Boccaccio's Decameron is sandwiched between a Vietnam war history and Christopher Moore's Bloodsucking Fiends: A Love Story. I think I see the complete set of Shakespeare plays, but none of them are next to each other -- her copy of Hamlet broods sullenly in the company of a textbook on comparative linguistics.

It reminds me of my own bookshelves, except she has so many more titles. It's like someone purchased a Borders and threw out every bad book. "My God, why would you ever leave the apartment?" I ask in envious wonder.

She can't control herself. She hugs me, pressing her face against my neck. I am impressed with her books, and by extension, she sees me as approving of her.

The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats is visible over her shoulder. She breaks contact to follow my gaze. I pull the book out, and it opens to the poem I am looking for.

I was breaking character. This wasn't something I had done the first time, but I was trusting an instinct.

"You like Yeats?" she asks.

"A friend of mine was a fan, but I haven't read much beyond Second Coming, in a survey course a couple years ago."

"Turning and Turning in the widening gyre..." She spins playfully.

"What do you know of Among School Children?"

"I wrote a paper on it last year."

I recite the closing couplet. "O body swayed to music, O brightening glance / How can we know the dancer from the dance?"

She smiles. "What do you think that means?"

"Isn't it about the performing arts? The difficulty of telling the difference between the respective intents of the composer and performer?"

"A lot of people take it that way when they see it out of context. It's got eight stanzas preceding that, which most people don't know."

"What's it really about?"

She laughs. "What do I know? I got a D."

"You?"

Tasha's expression turns professorial. "She really disliked my interpretation. I must have got it wrong too. The professor agreed with me that the poem was about destiny. There is all this imagery of something growing into something else -- the girl becomes a woman, the shoot becomes the tree, the egg hatches the swan -- but she said God was the dance. People are the dancers unable to see the choreography."

"You disagreed?"

Tasha shrugs.

"What did you think it meant?" I genuinely want to know. Tasha has a knack for seeing unconventional interpretations that make sense.

"Why do you care what I wrote in a D paper?"

I think about how to answer that. "I already trust you about such things more than I would most professors."

She likes that, and blushes. "I didn't think the final question of the poem was about God, but identity, extending the earlier metaphors. The girl becomes the woman, the egg becomes the swan, and the dancer becomes the dance. You can't know the dancer from the dance. If you could, she fails as a dancer. The professor called it sophistry, and gave me a D for thinking I could answer a rhetorical question."

"Thank you," I say, and mean it. I shift the elation I feel toward Tasha, and take her in my arms.

She presses herself close against me, and I am back in deja vu, picking up where my memories left off, with the feel of Tasha's breasts and thighs against me. The light tickle of her breath against my neck, and the unbelievable beauty and intelligence of the woman in my arms, result in an immediate physical response. This is a first date, where I take things slow. I try to arch my pelvis away from her, to prevent her from noticing my aroused state, but she drops her hand to my lower back, and pulls my hips closer to hers, pressing me against her abdomen. Her lips are warm and wet on my neck.

I put my hand on her chin, and tilt her face to meet mine. Her eyes are closed, but her lips are open and waiting. My arm slides around her, and we kiss softly. I feel her hand on the back of my head, twirling fingers through my hair. My tongue tastes hers, and delights in the flavor. Her lips are soft and yielding, while her mouth and tongue press forward. I caress her face, feeling the smooth texture of her skin.

She emits a low moan of caution, not passion, and pulls back. "I think you're going to be trouble," she says.

"No, I swear, I'm easy."

She catches the double meaning and laughs, but there is an edge to it. "That's what I mean." She continues to run her fingers through my hair and searches deep into my eyes. "You're witty, handsome, kind, and I think you might be almost as smart as me." She grins at that.

"Why is that trouble?"

"If we continue down this path, I don't think I'll want to let you go."

"Why would you want to?"

"You will want to." She saddens.

"Why would I do something as foolish as that? You're amazing."

She hangs her head. "Everyone leaves."

"I'm not popping the question on a first date. The earliest I have ever proposed is on a third date, and she was a contortionist."

She doesn't laugh, and contemplates my face, brushing a stray hair aside. "I guess it's up to me to make you want to stay."

It was a confusing conversation the first time, but now it gives me a sick feeling. I press on, reciting my lines from memory, as if from a script. "I like the sound of that."

She pulls me next to her on the couch.

I lean over and kiss her. My hand finds her leg, and meanders up her lower thigh.

"I need to warn you," she says. "I don't put out on the first date."

"Neither do I."

She laughs, and suddenly acts surprised.

"Oh my God! When did you undo my bra?" She is impressed rather than angry.

"I can't give away all my secrets on a first date."

"That was deftly done. Just a second." She does some arm movements under her shirt and seconds later the bra slides out of her sleeve, and she throws it on the floor. It's the first time I have seen what she calls her Flashdance trick.

"How the hell did you do that?"

"If I gave away all my secrets, what would keep you coming back?"

"A bright girl like you? You will think of something."

I kiss her neck, nuzzling down the neckline of her blouse. I undo a blouse button so I can kiss the tops of her breasts. They are warm and firm against my lips.

She holds my face in her hands, pulling me close. Her knees spread in response to my roving hand on her thigh. It has moved under her skirt and has encountered skin rather than nylon -- garters. I smile while continuing to kiss her.

She can tell I am happy with my discovery. "You like those?" She pushes her breasts forward, which is an invitation to undo the rest of her blouse, which I accept. She pillows it behind her head, and she pulls my face down to her breasts.

I take the nipple in my mouth, and she speaks. "Oh, I love how you do that. Your mouth is so hot and you use your hands so well. Show me what else you can do with them."

My teeth gently scrape the hardness of her nipple. I move my hand further up the cleft of her thighs and she parts her legs further. I make first contact, stroking her through her satin panties. I feel her clit already out of its hood, and the fabric is soaked. She is ready to play.

"Do it," she urges in a husky whisper. "Finger me. I want to feel you touch me."

I undo the garter clasps, which allows me to slide her panties down and off of her legs.

She spreads her legs further, and my fingers find her waiting entrance.

"Make me come," she says, "and I'll do the same for you, but that's as far as we go tonight."

Sounds like a deal to me.

She gasps in pleasure as my index finger enters her. My thumb plays with her clit.

"Kiss my breasts again. You're so good to me."

I obey, suckling her nipples, while inserting another finger inside her.

She is already on the verge of orgasm, with her hips undulating in rhythm to the hand that fucks her. "Oh God, I'm so wet for you. I'm so fucking hot right now. I'm going to..." She cries out in lust.

My God, she came fast.

But it seems to only whet her appetite. Her hands are running over my crotch, pawing at me. "Take me to my bedroom," she demands.

I am confused by the mixed messages, but I carry her to the bedroom. Her slight frame feels almost weightless in my arms. I set her down, watching her face for clues. Her eyes are flame as her hands undo my pants. She shoves them down to my knees, along with my boxers. My cock is exposed to her for the first time, and she stares at it with rapt hunger.

"I want it in me," she demands. "Now."

I kick my pants off. "I thought you don't put out on the first date."

"I guess I do on this one."

It's not my last encounter with her mercurial nature.

She spins me until my back is toward the bed, and pushes me onto her comforter. She undoes her skirt, and is immediately on top of me, naked except for her nylon stockings. She is straddling my hips, aggressively attacking my mouth with kisses. Her hands pull up my shirt, and she runs her fingers down my abdomen, until she grasps me firmly within the confines of her fingers.

"It's iron and it's mine," she says, and plunges my cock inside her, where it is enveloped by a fecund heat. She sits up, inserting me to the hilt. Her eyes blaze into mine, and her mouth is open wide in a beatific smile -- focused entirely on the sensations of her body, feeling every penetrating stroke and exulting in the sensations.

I appreciate my first full view of her naked form. She is slender and firm -- her teacup breasts are perfect, and her olive complexion simulates a flawless tan. Tasha's blue eyes are discordant against her Mediterranean/Asian features, but they make her enticingly exotic. Her beauty is unattainable, beyond the reach of mortals like me. It is impossible for someone this beautiful to be in my arms, but I am having her. I will never stop having her, I promise myself.

She is biting her lip as her hips dance, pushing me deep, pulling me out to the tip, and then sucking me inside her once more. "You have no idea how good this feels," she says. "I love the way you fuck me. Make me come. Fuck me harder!"

Her words turn her mouth into her most potent sex organ. The shift between her previous pristine elegance and her naked vulgarity is an erotic masterstroke. She has barely met me and it's as if she knows my buttons by instinct. Her body tells the truth behind her words, that she needs me as much as I need her.

My hands explore the new territory opened up before me -- touching, tickling, feathering, fluttering, squeezing, stroking, probing. Her body is soft, yielding to me, revealing a lack of strong muscles behind her slim form. She is a reader, not a runner, but she makes up in sensuality what she lacks in sinew.

Tasha relishes my touch, gasps and splays out her knees further. She increases the tempo of her hips, and she is now panting as she speaks. "Your cock fits me perfect, as if made for me. It is your sword, and I am your sheath."

I feel pressure build. My climax is imminent, and I want her to join me. I reach between her legs and touch her clit. It sends her immediately and her hips stutter. Each stroke is fast, but she holds the position to drink the maximum pleasure from it, before switching direction. Her sighs become groans -- her groans cries. Finally, she shatters and screams. It's a loud, piercing shout that moves through several vowel tones and is uttered at the top of her lungs.

The thrill of making this goddess come brings my own climax.

Tasha throws herself on top of me, kissing my face with desire while her thirsty loins drink every drop of my seed.

When I shudder in closure, she turns her head, pressing her cheek against mine.

"Oh, you're definitely going to be trouble," she says.

I hold her. I am in shock at the depth of her lust. I have never met anyone who threw herself into sex as deeply as this.

There is a sudden knock at her door. We hear a voice. "Tasha? Tasha? Open up!"

She frowns in concern and gets out of bed, grabbing a robe.

I pull on my pants and follow. I stand out of sight in the kitchen as she opens the door. I hear the conversation.

"Tasha, are you okay?" It's a woman's voice.

"Diane. Um, yeah. Why?"

"I heard screaming coming from your room. I thought you were hurt."

"Oh! Um... no, I'm fine."

Realization dawns on her would-be rescuer, as she notes the robe, the disheveled hair, and the flush on Tasha's face and neck. "Oh! You were...wow. He must be something. I'm sorry. I'll go. Have a good night... or more of a great night!"

Tasha closes the door. Her eyes are wide open, and her teeth are bared in an embarrassed grimace, but her face is still flush with post-coital bliss.