My Fair Lady

This is a follow-up to Lovely, Dark and Deep (romance - 1/15/22) and Cuddle, Kiss and Comfort (romance - 2/2/22).

Maybe winter isn't so bad after all. The terrible beauty that is January appears to be turning out beautiful indeed. A one Rhiana Schuster is in my life. Just a short time ago, I was a grieving man on social hiatus, grieving over Kathy, my beloved fiancé who had been killed on her bike by a texting driver. I'm still grieving, perhaps always will on some level, missing her, wondering what could have been. Yet, thanks to meeting Rhiana, I can feel myself emerging from the despair that's shadowed me for the past year. Cliché or not, maybe Rhiana and I are kindred spirits in the sense that we've both lost someone dear to us, someone we had planned to make a future with.

If a profound sense of loss is the only thing we have in common, then she wouldn't be sitting beside me on this chilly Saturday afternoon in my charcoal-gray Jeep Wrangler for our first "official" date. No way, because it takes more than sharing mutual grief to keep people together. Besides the obvious physical attraction, we both seem to share an absurdist sense of humor. I had her laughing the day we met. And there's something else: we both miss the joy of sledding. Neither of us had done it since our early teens. My American Flyer is long-gone but Rhiana still has hers, kept in her parents' garage for over fifteen years, "gathering dust," as she told me. But not anymore. The dust has been cleaned off and that sled now sits in the back of my Wrangler as we head over to one of the best sledding places in our region.

"You'll be warm in that?" Rhiana asks, noticing that I left my encumbering blue ski jacket home in favor of wearing a heavy ski sweater over a vest, sweat jersey, jeans and boots. "Sorry, it's my inner Jewish mother coming out again."

"No problem, mom, I'll be quite warm," I say. "You'll notice that I brought an ear-covering wool cap this time. The beard helps, too."

"I see," she chuckles, recalling the day we met when she covered my red, wind-burned ears with her hands. She wears the orange coat she wore that day, her own wool cap and fur-lined suede boots.

Coincidently, or maybe not, the last time we both went sledding was on this hill. Of course, we didn't know each other then, and we probably went on different days. Close to one-hundred yards from top to bottom, the hill stretches from the brick, two-story Summit Country Club clubhouse, down to a two-lane secondary road. The Summit is an exclusive, old WASBY, blue blood kind of club, but members have always welcomed sledders on its broad slope, whether they belong to the club or not.

After parking the Jeep on a side street and lifting the sled from the back, we trudge up the hill, careful not to slip on the snow and ice that had accumulated over the past week. No surprise, other sledders are along for the ride on their own American Flyers and flying saucer type sleds.

When we reach the top, Rhiana says, "You go first."

"No, you," I say. "Ladies first."

She draws a faux exasperated look. "We'll go together. How's that? At least for the first ride."

So, going tandem it is. The sled is long enough to accommodate both of us. I take front, which means I'm charged with steering the thing with my feet. "Ready?"

"Ready," she says, then wraps her arms around me. "Push off."

Olympic bobsledding this isn't, where sleds can reach speeds that you see cars doing on our interstates. Still, it's fairly steep for the first half, and so we fly down, heading for the infamous low berm at the bottom. The berm rises in front of a putting green that the club's golfers use during the season. Hit it and you're sure to capsize. Barring that, you can steer to the right or left of it, though a sharp steer can also capsize your ride. Which is exactly what I do. The sled overturns and we go with it, no worse for wear. Rhiana laughs like a kid who just had the ride of her life. "That was fun!" she cries, brushing the snow from her coat. "Let's do it again."

We do, this time with Rhiana in the cockpit. Unlike me, she negotiates the berm without a turnover. We then go solo, sometimes lying down, other times sitting upright. There's minimal wind today, so we stay reasonably comfortable. Trudging back up that hill after every turn is enough exercise to keep the blood circulating. And speaking of blood flow, there's plenty of that during the brief necking we do between turns on the sled. The last time we necked was on a sofa in her parents' den. Now we do it atop the hill, oblivious to those around us and members of the Summit Country Club who can easily see us through the windows if they take the time and interest to even look. There's something special about kissing a beautiful girl like Rhiana in the crisp winter air. There's a minty tang to it, her erotic, feminine scent combined with a menthol-like freshness. I tell her that she's my snow maiden in spandex and she tells me that I'm her hunk of an iceman in denim, the sort of iceman that "warms me deep inside my gut," she says

Almost two hours of this, and we're ready to call it a day. On the slope, that is. When we get back in the Wrangler, she says, "I'd like to see your place. Can you take me home with you?"

Of course, it's a request that I can hardly refuse. Home for me is a townhouse located a few blocks from Johns Hopkins University, my alma mater. Students and a few of the Hopkins faculty live in the neighborhood. Fortunately, the violence that has plagued other Baltimore neighborhoods is relatively rare here. My front porch faces an urban park equipped with benches where people still feel safe enough to sit on warm days and watch the goings on, the traffic whizzing by, people going to work, students coming and going to class. The place is abuzz with the "right" kind of energy.

Most of the homes, including mine, have a carport in back, a luxury for city dwellers. Car break-ins happen but it's not too often, and so we leave the sled in the Wrangler. After hanging up our coats and stepping out of our boots by the backdoor, I give Rhiana a tour.

The house dates from the nineteen-twenties, but previous owners installed updates like central air and gas heat. My own updates include walls painted a light gray (except for the canary yellow walls of the kitchen), redone hardwoods throughout the house and stainless-steel appliances. "When I finally move from my parents' house, I might get a place like this," Rhiana says. "There's a certain charm to these houses that's missing from suburbia."

Upstairs, she notices the bicycle that I keep in one of the two spare bedrooms. "I keep mine in my parents' club basement," she says. "I keep it on the trainer and do spinning in cold weather. When it gets warmer, maybe we can ride together."

I nod, thinking back to the times I rode with Kathy. Great memories turned sad by her death on a bike. "Sure, when it gets warmer."

Rhiana is perceptive enough to pick up the wistful pathos in my voice. "Oh, my, I just remembered that you and Kathy used to ride together. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to drudge up--"

"Hey, it's okay." I reach out and give her a reassuring hug. "When it gets warmer, we'll ride." Teasingly, I add, "Sure you can keep up with me?"

She sees me grinning. "Listen to you. Well, we'll see. These legs can crank out a mighty cadence, I'll have you know."

"Oh, I believe that," I say, gawking at her firm, shapely thighs under the spandex. "I'll look forward to it." That little exchange breaks what could have potentially turned into a sad mood. I continue: "Meanwhile, how about if I get the fireplace going? Then we can relax on the sofa with a glass of wine. Are you onboard?"

"Totally onboard. But before we go back downstairs, let's do this."

I don't have to ask what she means by "this." We stand and kiss, our bodies pressed tightly together, while that poet's words once again pop into my mind: "pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath." This time, I remember that it was Alan Seeger, an American French Foreign Legionnaire who fought and died in World War One, that wrote those immortal words.

When we finally decouple, she says, "Aaron, you better get that fire going now before I start tearing your clothes off."

"Not a bad idea. If I let you do that, THEN will you take your bra off?"

She doubles over in a hearty laugh, recalling that time on her sofa when she wanted to dispense with her bra but feared it could lead to, and I quote, "something we lack the privacy for and emotionally I'm not sure I'm ready for." When her laughter trails off, she says, "Okay, I guess I'm at least ready for that." She gins at me in a pregnant pause. Then: "And maybe a lot more."

I look forward to the 'maybe a lot more' while setting logs inside my working fireplace. Still, even if what she alluded to doesn't happen, I wouldn't be disappointed because I take great pleasure in just being with her, being with this beautiful and sensitive woman who knows what I've been through, if for no other reason than because she's been through it herself.

"Is Merlot okay?" I ask, once the fire gets crackling.

"Merlot is always okay."

"Are you always this easy to please?"

She flashes me an impish look. "Guess you'll need to find out," she says, her tone loaded with innuendo.

I pour two glasses of Merlot, then come back into the living room and join my guest.

We're face to face, with one leg tucked under us, the other hanging over the sofa. "To better times," I say.

She repeats my toast, we clink glasses and then she says, "I have a good feeling that we're both headed for better times. Fate, coincidence, good luck, serendipity, whatever the right reason or reasons, something brought us together at just the right place at just the right time. I kind of wanted you before I even knew you. If that makes any sense."

I take a sip and nod. "Of course it does. Kathy's death left a big void in my life just as Sam's death left a void in yours. I knew I couldn't extend my so-called social hiatus indefinitely, that sooner or later I'd be out there actively looking for someone to fill that void. When we met, I was looking but not consciously in the sense of actively looking. Not on the prowl, in other words. And then, I'm out hiking through the snow, alone and sad, when I see this beautiful woman coming toward me. And, surprise surprise, she even stopped to chat."

Rhiana chuckles and takes a sip. "There was no way I was going to let you pass by without saying anything. Number one, I like beards on guys. And number two, I sensed something that I couldn't put into words at the time. I had been in a depressed, needy state of mind since Sam's death, and perhaps I was projecting that onto you before you even told me about Kathy."

"A perfect storm for what's followed, I'd say. And so here we are, on my sofa, sipping wine before a crackling fire."

"A loverly place to be."

"Loverly...hmm. Isn't that from My Fair Lady?"

She almost spills her wine. "Ohmygod, Aaron, you know that?!"

"I should. My parents played the original Broadway cast album so often, I can recite the lyrics to every song. An exaggeration but yeah, I know it: 'I have often walked down this street before, but the pavement often stayed beneath my feet before...'"

Without missing a beat, Rhiana sings the next line: "'All at once am I several stories high, knowing I'm on the street where you live...' I saw the movie I don't know how many times. I love the music from those old musicals. The King and I. Oklahoma. Carousel. West Side Story. Great stuff."

"Terrific stuff. Finally, I've found a woman who loves those musicals as much as I do. I'm a rock fan too, but those songs from Oklahoma, West Side Story and the rest will live on and on."

Moments pass just gazing into each other's eyes and grinning, as if to say that I can't believe I've found this person with whom I share so many mutual interests. Soulmate pops into my head, a word so over-used, so corny that I'm ashamed to even think it, let alone say it aloud. Instead, I say, "If a revival of any of those musicals comes to town, I'd like to take you."

"Yes, of course," she says. "I heard that Steven Spielberg might direct a remake of West Side Story. We could go to the movie if we don't see it onstage."

I reach out and run my hand down her braid, long, thick and silky-smooth. "It's a date. By the way, I love your hair."

"Oh, thanks," she says, with a little girl kind of giggle. "I don't have to do much with it other than clip it in back and let it fall where it may."

"You must be the envy of other Jewish girls everywhere."

"Oh, I don't about that," she says laughing. "My brother Rick has hair like yours, long and kind of wiry." She takes a sip. Then: "You know, Aaron, this is so comfortable with the way we're getting to know each other, sharing a glass of wine by a fire, sharing interests, making plans."

What she just said compels me to sing a line from The King and I: "'Getting to know you, getting to know all about you. Getting to like you, getting to hope you like me...'"

"Ohmygod, one of my faves. 'Getting to know you, putting it my way, but nicely. You are precisely, my cup of tea...' Do you know more of it? If so, we can have a little duet going."

Holding our wine glasses, seated just inches apart, we do our best to harmonize:

"'Getting to know you

Getting to feel free and easy

When I am with you

Getting to know what to say

Haven't you noticed

Suddenly I'm bright and breezy

Because of all the beautiful new things

I'm learning about you day by day...'"

Only the naïve believe in perfect compatibility. Yet right now, in this moment, I have no doubt that it exists right here in this tiny corner of the world between myself and Rhiana Schuster. We set our wine glasses down on the coffee table and then fall into each other's arms for a different sort of harmonizing. Moments ago, our voices became one. Now it's our bodies, pressed together in a warm embrace, expressing something that no words can fully express. Getting to know all about her? No, not yet, but the getting to feel 'free and easy' part I can relate to. So comfortable, so natural, like "breathing out and breathing in," to quote another lyric from the pen of Alan Jay Lerner.

When we finally come up for air, I say, "Rhiana, you said something about tearing off my clothes. Well, now would be a good time."

She nods and says, "I was just going to say that I think it might be time to dispense with what's coming between us. With no hesitation, she 'dispenses' with her pull-over blouse. "My bra can come off too, but I figure we'll have more room in your bedroom."

"We will, including a queen-sized bed to play in."

"Well then, lead the way, guy."

I do, and moments later, we're standing atop one of my colorful scatter rugs, just a mere step away from my half-made queen-sized bed. There is no tearing off of clothes. Rather, it's more like an incremental progression, slow and gentle, and it begins when I reach behind and unfasten the clips of her bra--the bra she was afraid to take off but now is all too willing to let me do the honors. Her sexy moan excites me as much as the feel of my fingers and tongue on the velvety-smooth skin of her firm breasts. "I love the way you do that," she says, barely above a whisper. "Gentle is as gentle does."

I'm not exactly sure what that means, though I suspect she enjoys what I'm doing and the way I'm doing it. Of course, I offer no resistance when she pulls off my sweat shirt, and then begins drawing imaginary circles from my navel to collar bone. It's situations like this when I wish I had a six-pack to show on a waist that's expanded more than it should on the cusp of my thirties. Not that she seems to care, and those erotically tactile circles she draws serves to ramp up my desire even more. Once again, my cock moves in response, expanding upward and outward against the fabric of my jeans and underwear.

The pressure from said expansion builds when I gawk at the sensuous way she shimmies out of her spandex pants. I've never been to a live strip show, but I can't imagine any of those striptease gals doing it any better. When I step out of my jeans, her beautiful brown eyes widen when she sees the bulge. "Wow, Aaron! I feel honored."

"Thanks, but it's me that feels honored. I mean, look at you," I say, as I step back to do just that, gawking more than simply looking at her lovely form, beautifully proportioned, from her breasts and flat tummy to her amazing legs, legs that can 'crank out a mighty cadence,' as she had boasted, a boast that I suspect is right on the money.

"One more thing," she says when we're fully disrobed. She then pulls out her barrette, letting loose her full-bodied locks.

I embrace her again and notice that she's trembling. "Are you okay?"

She draws a wane smile, yet also looks like she's about to cry. "I'm fine, just a little nervous. I haven't been alone like this with a guy since Sam. Otherwise, I feel very comfortable with you. Now, let's get in bed already so you can warm me up."

Two walls of my bedroom face the outside, causing it to be the coldest room in the house. Curtains and new windows help, but on winter days, with no clothes, you need to huddle under a few blankets to stay warm. For me, a shapely feminine body to cuddle up to makes for the warmest blanket of all. And doing this with Rhiana takes me back to those winter days and nights, sharing this bed with my beloved Kathy. Holding her, making love to her, sleeping with her. The memories are enough to make me cry, something I did a lot of during my saddest days, when I felt I was living in a Hank Williams song. The sadness lingers, as I know it does with Rhiana. Yet the light shining through that long dark tunnel gets brighter and brighter when I'm with this amazing woman. No longer do I feel 'so lonesome I could cry.'

What I do feel, among other things, is Rhiana's skin, as silky-smooth and soft as I imagine the way silk pajamas must feel. Loverly, as she might say. She seems more comfortable--I no longer detect a tremble. "You're not shaking anymore," I tell her, spooning her from behind.

"Yes, because you're warming me up and holding me the way I've wanted to be held for so long. I feel secure with you." She turns to face me and we begin to kiss, arms draped over each other. When we part, she says, "Emotionally, even as we stepped into this room, I wasn't sure I'd be ready for you to make love to me because, well, you know, it's all tied up with what happened to Sam. But on a purely physical level, I was more than ready."

"And now?"

"And now? I think you know. But if you don't..."

I do, and in less time than it takes to say, 'the rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain,' she's on top of me. My tongue slides up and down her front, from her belly to her breasts, while she humps my rising cock against her wet pussy. Earlier, she had told me that she never went off the pill, so there's no holding back from doing something we both crave, emotional inhibitions be damned. Maybe that's why there's little of the awkwardness that comes with making love to someone new. "We appear to be in sync," I say.

She wraps her hand around my cock, now fully-erect and headed for a special place with a special lady. "We certainly are," she says. "Now let's put you inside me." She does, slips me inside her with the greatest of ease, and then begins to move, slow for the first few moments, then faster as the moments pass and the room heats up a few degrees. It sure feels that way, because we no longer need all those blankets. This is our first tango and one that I'm happy with letting her take the lead on. I get to run my hands over her firm, sexy butt and thighs, smooth and seemingly tireless and pumping out countless reps of quarter-squats, though hardly the kind you'd see in a commercial gym. None that I frequent, at any rate.