Rick

She's screaming denial inside, that this isn't her, that it isn't what she does or the way she behaves. She's never so forthright, always discreet, tactful. She's wretched because of her exposure of herself. She wants to cry, to hang up and call it all off.

But there is a louder voice inside her. It's the voice of her truth. The truth is calmer, it has such clarity that there can be no denial. You dialed his number. You dialed his number. It means something. You want this, all of it. You do want this, you do, you've dialed and so you do.

~

He waits, hoping that she doesn't hang up like the woman from before. Come on, he thinks. It's ok. Come over to this side. Do it, you'll see. Come on.

~

What is my name? Should I make one up or use my real name?

"Sally", she says.

You do want this, you do want this. For an instant she soars in the realization of the truth. I want this. I want this.

And as easily as that, she is in conversation him, Rick.

"I'm fine, thank you. How are you?" The words feel wrong somehow, she thinks. To speak like this, so normally, so true to convention, feels out of place here and now. But then, what else could she say?

"Yes, uh-huh. Just visiting."

"A conference." She feels totally inarticulate. She feels herself flush at the embarrassment.

"No, no, nothing like that. I'm an elementary school principal." Her guard goes up abruptly. Was that smart? To tell him this. Careful.

"No, first time here."

"Yes, yes. It sure is different!"

He has asked her what she's done for fun so far. Again, her guard goes up. Not too much, don't' reveal too much.

"Oh, not too much. A little gambling last night, walked the Strip with some people I met." Easy. She wonders how 'it', the real reason for the call - will start, whether she has to come right out and ask him. The thought alarms her. She's not sure she can do that, can't imagine what exactly to say. She hopes that he'll do it, that he'll know how. What happens after that, she's not so sure.

"Any shows? Uh-huh. One."

Oh My God! He guessed it. Thunder Down Under. The image of the bouncing gold pouch with a five dollar bill fills her mind's eye.

"Yes! But how did you know?" Teasingly now. More normal. She feels a slight relaxation in her shoulders.

"You haven't?" Surprised that he hasn't gone himself. But then her logic kicks in and she worries that she might have offended. Maybe he's gay. Or bi. Or straight. But if he's straight, why would he go to that show. Maybe he was with someone. She imagines a woman – or maybe a man – calling him, arranging the date, going to the show. He escorts, escorts her – or him? – to the show. And then afterward...? Butterflies erupt in her stomach.

"Oh, I see. Everybody goes, eh?" Strangely, her ego surfaces. Just you wait, buddy. I'm not just anybody. Then, a sudden reversal. Why so combative?

"What do you think happens?" Laughing at his question, she realizes now that she's relaxed enough to flirt a bit.

"No, I'm not going to tell you...No!....No!!...I guess you'll just have to go and see for yourself."

He declines, claims he isn't that naughty. What is he saying? What is he implying, that I am?

They're both laughing now, taunting each other, back and forth, innuendo, double-entendres. She likes his quick wit, his cleverness. She's matching him beat for beat. She realizes all of a sudden that she's having fun, that she's dipping her toe into mischievous waters, inching herself closer to full immersion.

It's a conversation that will end up in a certain place. She knows this, the inevitability of it. She knows that when it happens her whole being will concentrate itself to a single point, the carnality of this man's knowledge of her. It will be the giving of her permission, no, her yielding totally and utterly to him.

Her heart jumps at this thought, the clarity of it, the certainty of what is going to happen, the exhilarating risk of it, its rawness.

And then, just then as she's ignited by these thoughts, he asks the big question. She hears the words, real words spoken to her on the phone, his words, words that take them both to a universe where fantasy and reality are one and the same.

All she can do is echo the question back to him.

"Would I like some company tonight?"

Her heart is pounding. Her body clenches everywhere, as if she has been struck and is ringing from the blow. She knows the expected answer is a simple Yes, but can she come out and say it? One simple word. Yes?

The fantasy bursts into her mind, but it's different somehow. She can imagine no arousal, no soaring erotic pleasure. She is too energized, too intense. Suddenly she realizes that that, too, is what she wants, a pleasure in its own right. She wants, she wants, needs the exhilaration, the uncertainty, the potential for dangerous ecstasy.

Seconds have passed. Then, a kind of purposeful resolve settles in her.

Does she want some company tonight? "Yes. Yes. I do."

And with that, the fantasy in her mind floods with eroticism, her head thrown back, her legs wrapped around the beautiful man, her pussy enveloping his cock as she rocks with his rhythmic fucking.

~

He hears her simple answer, Yes, but it holds this woman's whole being in it. In the split second of hearing her voice, he hears the word, started timidly. But even in the duration of her speaking the single word, he hears the change in it, the sound of her voice filling with certainty. Her truth is colouring what he hears, that she wants this, that she will venture herself, take the risk.

He imagines how she feels, how that single word is her open admission of desire, but that now it is hanging there, spinning in front of them both, exposed and vulnerable. She has admitted her desire. She has made the most intimate self-disclosure.

He tells her how happy he is, that he'd like to meet her. He asks her if it's her first time. Yes. A little scary? A pause and then Yes. He tries to reassure her. Gently, he invites her to wade more deeply into the experience. For you. It's all for you.

There are details to take care of, practical matters. They seem out of place, crude, too real to be part of her fantasy. Her donation to him, which hotel she's staying in, the room number, when she wants him.

The particulars out of the way, he opens the door to the imagined details, the mystery, the dream of it. For you. He tells her he can't wait to meet her.

She asks him what she needs to do. He tells her.

"Relax in a hot bath and let it happen for you."

~

She's unable to control the trembling as she hangs up the phone. It rattles into the cradle. She wraps her arms around herself and begins to rock forward and back, trying to get control of herself.

He'll be here in less than an hour.

~

He flips his phone closed. Sally. Her first time.

Sometimes the women who call have done this before, just not with him. Sometimes they're fun. It can get pretty wild. No rules fucking, but with condoms. Sometimes though, it's as if they know the drill, making assumptions about it, taking him – him – for granted. That's when it feels dirty for him, exploitive. When it's like this, it's just about the money.

Some women are repeats for him. He likes being with his repeats, women he has agreed to see a few times. They're his friends now, women that he cares for. He feels happy for them in their arousal, their climaxes. Sometimes they don't even do it, they just talk, stroking each other's skin. It's the connection that makes it special, listening to them, the honesty that they express with him that they can't with their husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends. Everything drops, for him too, and they meet each other in full vulnerability. That's when it's good. Nothing to hide, open to each other, abandoning to each other, to each others' bodies and minds.

The absolute best is when she's trying it for the first time and she's able to let herself go. He understands her nervousness – he was nervous his first few times too. She will need his help to overcome her fear of abandoning herself to it, to let down her guard and let it happen for herself.

But that's the good part for him, when she has her moment. It will be a moment that she might never have experienced before, after she's naked, after he has touched her – perhaps has begun to thrust into her – the moment when she can no longer help herself, the moment when all her reservation and guardedness dissolves and instantaneously ignites into a flash of unbounded lust.

~

She can't think straight, can't put a thought into her head.

Suddenly her self-consciousness leaps up. What will he think of her, her middle-aged body? What if she's disgusting to him? She couldn't bear to see the small flinch cross his face when he first lays eyes on her, the flicker in the eyes that reveals everything. She imagines his forced neutral expression when he picks up the odour of her pussy. But her pragmatism saves her from this. She will do as he said, bathe, at least be as clean and fresh as she can be.

She starts to undress and steps into the bathroom for the bath, but she is too restless to lie back and soak. She decides on a shower instead. In the hot stream of water she soaps herself, washing herself down below twice, three times.

In her nakedness her mind turns once again to the sex. She has never done it without feelings. She's not been with many men, Wayne and, before that, a couple of others. Always in a relationship. What's gotten into me? Sex with a stranger, the thought of it is both terrifying and exhilarating.

It's coming back to her now. The abandonment. She has the fantasy back now, sees herself looking into his eyes as he firmly but gently violates what she was, transforming her. Emancipation.

The shower calms her somewhat. She wonders what he does to prepare, whether he'll be so clean. This causes another spike of panic in her. What if he's not, what if he smells? What do I do then?

Minutes later, she has dressed again, a chocolate-coloured skirt, a cream-coloured, long-sleeved knit shirt buttoned to a 'vee' at the front. Bra and panties. She smiles remembering the image of Mika, thumbs in the waistband of her red thong, feet apart with one hip thrust to the side, the panty less warrior woman.

Her own underwear is plain, mundane. Department-store-mother's underwear. She feels embarrassed by it, how out of synch it is with what she's doing tonight. Not romantic in the slightest, not something that she can place into her fantasy. She begins to wonder why, why she hasn't ever bought fancier lingerie. Up to now she's never really connected lace with her sexuality. She's always put it down to male fantasies, magazine images, nothing to do with reality, nothing to do with her.

She imagines how it must feel to wear fancy lace, hidden from the world but still part of her. A secret about herself that keeps a message in her mind – there's more to me than you can see, things you can't possibly know...like wearing no panties at all, like the feeling she enjoyed last night. She wonders what Wayne would think. Wayne...

She can't stop pacing. Knowing it's crazy – Rick is not there yet – she looks out through the peephole. In her mind she rationalizes this: a practice run. When he knocks on the door she'll look first before opening it. A final check, one last way to say no.

This is crazy. She notices that her breathing is deep and fast, understands now how some people can hyperventilate. Calm down. She smiles as she imagines fainting, lying unconscious on the floor when the knock comes, missing it all.

The money. She had forgotten about it, being so preoccupied with everything else. Going to her purse, she pulls out her wallet and counts out three hundred – most of it won at the slots last night. She realizes again that she's in another world now. Does she tip? She doesn't want to offend, not even a stranger. She decides to play it safe and adds another fifty to the stack. She smiles inwardly. Still Sally.

She doesn't know how the money part goes. Does she give it to him right away or wait until the end? What's the etiquette? There must be a right way, even if this whole thing is wrong. She decides to leave the money in an envelope on the dresser.

She sits and tries to read but can't concentrate, so she flips on the television. She cycles quickly through the channels not really noticing what's on.

~

The cab is pulling into the hotel's grand drive. Sally. Meeting her, helping her to have her moment, watching her body overwhelm her mind. The rush ignites in him.

Stepping out into the glaring lights, he pulls out his phone and calls her room. He can hear her nervousness. Her voice is a little choked, pitched a little higher. She's trying to sound calm but it's not working, an act. She sounds perky, like a cheerleader, but he knows she is forcing it. He asks her if she's excited. She says she's too nervous to be excited, an honest response at least.

What can he say to help her?

"Listen, Sally... Nothing bad's going to happen, ok? We can take it slow, talk for a while if you like. Whatever you want."

A long pause. He hears a shudder in her breath.

Then more quietly, as gently as he can, "I'll just come up and we'll go from there, ok?"

There's a pause at the other end. He imagines her gripping the phone with two hands, so keyed up she can't even think.

She sounds like a little girl now. "Ok."

"See you in a couple of minutes."

~

Go from there. Amazingly his words have made her feel better, have taken the pressure off. She imagines him as a visitor, a new friend, someone who she can talk with, have a drink with. His words have sealed off the rest of it in her mind. And there's something in the way that he's spoken, like he knows. Like he's thinking just about her, like it's not a routine thing for him. She feels like she's remembering herself again, that she's back in touch. Scared for sure, but that it's ok to be scared. Herself. It's like he has laid out some rules, some limits. It helps a little.

She begins to pace between the door and the window. She tries to look over the Strip but she can't stand still. She turns and paces toward the door and sees the peephole. She can't stop herself from looking even though she knows he won't be there yet. Back to the window, but then she rushes back to the peephole. This is crazy! Nobody is there. She turns and paces again, again, again. She turns to the window and paces toward it.

~

Walking down the hall he feels relief that he's gotten off the casino floor. He can relax completely when he's in her room. Looking for her room number, he pauses when he gets one door away. The rush feels different somehow. She's so nervous. He's excited for her, confident that he can help her enjoy herself, discover her moment, discover something about herself.

He's done his usual preparations, a close shave, shower, chosen his clothes. He isn't one to overdo it. He knows that he's fairly normal looking, not a male model by any stretch, but still attractive in an easy-going way. He takes care of himself, but isn't a fanatic. He goes to the gym but doesn't stand in front of the mirrors like some of the other guys.

Absently, he runs his hand through his hair and steps up to her door. She might already be looking through the peephole – some of his ladies have admitted this, embarrassed but laughing it away once they're comfortable with him. He knocks softly on the door three times then steps back so she can get a good view. Relax and don't look at the peephole.

~

There is a gentle knock on the door and she flies to the peephole and puts her eye to it. She has her first glimpse of him. Time has frozen the snapshot of him. He is young – early thirties she guesses, not some kid. Already she feels some relief. It will be ok. He is a puppy, just a little sad, needs a friend, casual, not rumpled, a little tousled maybe. It suits him. Brown hair, the peephole distorts his body, his legs disappearing in a downward curve.

Not a smoothie, not a bulging fitness freak, not perfect. The face is tanned, has smiled a lot, she can see it around his eyes. He reminds her of a teacher once on her staff. A nice guy and a great teacher.

She wonders if he had seen the flicker of light in the peephole from his side. Suddenly she's embarrassed. Staring, checking him out. How rude! Her heart races.

It's time to open the door, to let him in, let it all start. Her body is detached from her. She sees her hand slide the door chain. Her fingers turn the lock. The sound of the click is loud, final. She watches her hand on the door handle, turning it down, another loud click. She will let him in.

~

The door swings open and he catches his first glimpse of her.

His first reaction. She is beautiful but she doesn't believe it, he thinks.

~

"Hi, I'm RickSally."

They've said it simultaneously. She laughs with him at this, the amusement of it breaking the ice a little. But they'll have to start again and she feels a moment's awkwardness begin to develop, that there will be an ever so slight pause while their eyes and bodies language negotiate who will go first this time. But he's intercepted the moment. His laughing smile is in his eyes and his body.

"Don't you hate when that happens?" He is right. It happens all the time. It's normal. This is normal. Normal? She is confused for a moment.

Yes, he's a puppy. Live eyes taking in the world, wondrous at it all. He's stepped into the room and without a pause has come to her, the hug of a friend, ample, comfortable. She hugs him back, feels his body. The faintest hint of his scent, lovely. She feels his kiss on her cheek. A stranger, but as familiar as a long-lost friend.

She steps back, letting him into the room, a hostess now. In her mind she sees a ludicrous image, that he has kicked off his shoes, is pulling off his golf shirt, he is undressing right away, is already hard. Getting down to it. So much for foreplay.

"Whew!" He's said this as if he's relieved, as if he's finished the hard part of something. Is he nervous too?

"Now I can relax." He is relieved, she thinks. She wonders if it's a rush for him too, getting into the room, wondering what the woman is like. Maybe it's not something you can ever get used to. Maybe it's why he does this, for the rush of it.

"I always feel... conspicuous, eh?...that the security will recognize me...it's stupid. Trying to be discreet...you know. I feel better now."

He smiles warmly. "It's good to see you." She hears his accent, familiar, but she can't place it.

"It's nice to meet you, too." How lame! She groans inwardly but can't think of anything else to say.

She has a small burst of panic. Where do I sit? On the bed, or is that obvious, too soon? On the chair? Too distant, apart? She doesn't feel ready for anything. Since their initial hug they haven't touched. Her pulse quickens as she imagines him beckoning her to sit on his lap, the first intimate touch, setting everything in motion, moving too fast for her. Reluctance flares up and she thinks about telling him that she's not ready.

"Still nervous?" He smiles gently as he makes himself comfortable in the one and only chair in the room. There's nothing for her now but to sit on the edge of the bed facing him.

"Yes." A long pause. "I've never...I don't know what I'm supposed to..."

Right away she wishes that she hadn't said it. What if he responds by telling me what to do, by starting it, she thinks. Too soon, to soon...