The Neurologist and the Guitar

* * * *

INTERMEZZO (connecting interval)

* * * *

When Monday rolled around, Ross waited until well after the first shift change was done, and the halls were comparatively quiet, especially in Neurology, before heading to Dr. Indra Haven's office. He hadn't exactly obsessed about his encounter with Indra the previous Friday (although he did tentatively try probing his hole with a spit-wetted finger while he was masturbating to the memory), but he had decided he had a question for her.

Her office door was open, so he walked in, closed the door behind him, sat down at her desk and said, "Why?"

The abruptness of his arrival and the lack of pleasantries - "Hi, can I come in ..." - put Indra immediately on the defensive. "Why, what?" she replied. Since she and Ross were connected through exactly one topic - sex, although maybe music might count as a second topic since he came to see her play, twice - she was pretty sure Ross was asking "why" about some aspect of their encounter, and Indra was not accustomed to her sex partners asking questions like this.

"I don't know, where to begin, so many things," Ross started. "How about why did you cut our date short?"

Indra cringed at the word "date" - too many implications. She chose to ignore that and address the question head-on. "Because it was over. It would have been awkward for us to have waited through your refractory period, and we were both satisfied already."

"How do you know I was satisfied?"

"The look on your face and the ounce and a half of sperm I swallowed."

"I felt great, really, and I was spent, sure, but spent is not the same as satisfied."

"And what exactly does that mean?" Indra looked genuinely confused, which in turn confused Ross.

"It means that an 'encounter' like that is more than just the physical sensations and life-altering orgasms." Indra smiled at "life-altering" - at least he appreciated what'd been given.

"Such as?"

Ross was pretty sure that Indra wasn't dense, and she is too direct to be toying with him. She just didn't get it.

"Such as connection. Interaction. A more than one dimensional experience. Don't get me wrong, what you did to me was incredible, but in hindsight it was more like a medical procedure than a sexual encounter."

Indra had mixed feelings about that characterization of their time together. She appreciated the inference that she was skilled, precise, and confident of the outcome. But Ross was making it sound like she didn't care about him. She had taken such great pains to create an experience. She made herself look and smell more alluring, she shared her passion for classical guitar with him. What else was missing?

"I'm not looking for a relationship or a boyfriend, Ross. If that wasn't clear, then I am sorry for the confusion. We connect physically - that's why I proposed our get-together in the first place. When we fucked in the bathroom, I loved your reactions and it made me feel great. That's why I came to you." It was Ross' turn to cringe when she said "fucked." It's what they did, for certain, but the way she said it made it sound so trivial and inconsequential. "We both got what we wanted."

"No, I got what you assumed I wanted. When you proposed this whole thing, I distinctly recall you saying something about providing you with great pleasure if I was able to take direction."

"You did!"

"Maybe, but I didn't know I would just be a passenger on the ride. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted to be more active? Touch you? Feel your reaction? Enjoy your body? Give you some pleasure and get the rush from doing it?"

In fact, Indra hadn't really considered it much at all. He was able to give her physical pleasure in the bathroom, but that was because he was basically following her lead. The likelihood that he'd have a fraction of the skill that she had was low, so why would she abdicate the responsibility for her pleasure to him? It didn't make sense.

On the other hand, maybe, in his own way, he felt some of the same excitement and satisfaction from providing pleasure that she did. There had been partners in her life that were legitimately good at sex and seemed to enjoy getting her off the way she liked. Those were very uncommon, though. She was usually good at spotting that kind of potential.

"Look, Ross, if you feel like I prevented you from fully enjoying yourself with me, then I am truly sorry. If you feel I was selfish or insensitive, it was not my intention." Indra always believed she was very generous with her talents but was open to the idea that maybe Ross wanted something she hadn't thought to offer, and he did seem to appreciate what he was offered.

"Thank you, I appreciate that."

There was a long awkward pause. Neither of them was sure what, if anything, to say next. Ross got up to leave, but as he reached for the doorknob, Indra asked, "Why was it so important for you to tell me this?"

Maybe she IS dense, Ross thought, or just has a huge blind spot. He shook his head and smiled. "Because you are a fascinating woman, Indra. I like you. You are a gifted musician, and I could listen to you play classical guitar for hours, even without the promise of mind-blowing sex. I'm intrigued by how you look at sex, how you've studied it. I'm attracted to you - I'm curious how YOUR body feels, tastes, reacts to touches and caresses. So, if there was going to be any chance of any of those things ever happening again, I had to see if you would understand how I felt."

He opened the door, walked out, and closed it behind him.

That evening, Indra fell asleep and had unusual, for her at least, dreams. She dreamt that she was lying naked in a soft comfortable bed in a dimly lit room. She wasn't bound, but she could not move her arms and legs. She could feel them, but they were frozen in place. She felt an invisible hand graze her nipple, almost like a cool breeze. Her nipple got hard and she longed to touch it but couldn't. Strong but gentle hands caressed her thighs and calves, and she could feel warm breath on her belly, but she still could see no one in the room. The tip of an unseen tongue slid slowly between the folds of her pussy lips; she shuddered at the touch and she felt herself moisten. She tried to speak, to help guide the invisible touches, but she could not make a sound. Lips closed around a nipple, and a fingertip traced tiny circles around her clit, maddeningly close but never quite touching it.

Her frustration grew - the sensations were amazing, but her level of arousal was remaining the same. She wanted to feel the rise, the build-up toward blissful release, but she was stalled. Eventually the sensations would fade, and she'd be left with just a memory of her excitement with no climax.

She had this dream several times during that night, each time the same until finally, while the tender teasing touches were getting her worked up, she could see faces begin to emerge in the darkness: her own. It was her own lips suckling her nipple, her own hands caressing her legs, her own tongue lapping at her slit, her fingertip massaging her clit. Indra looked pleadingly at these images of herself, still unable to speak, trying to will them to help her come, but they paid her no attention. Their expressions were distant and disinterested. They were focused on their task, paying no heed to their subject, as if she didn't matter. It was impersonal. A phrase crossed her mind: "passenger on the ride." She had no part in the direction of this journey and could not guide it to conclusion. She was destined to remain just shy of release.

Indra's alarm blared at 5:30 as always. She rolled out of bed, tense and irritated, showered, skipped the gym, and was at her office by 6:45. She tried to so some paperwork, but was distracted, constantly checking the time. At 8:50, she walked down to the security office, knocked once, and without waiting for a response, opened the door and entered. Ross sat at his desk with the phone to his ear, with a look of surprise and irritation at the intrusion. He made eye contact with Indra and held her gaze for the next four minutes as he finished his call. He hung up the phone and waited.

Indra took a deep breath and said, "What do you propose?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what do you propose? You told me yesterday that you are attracted to me and want to feel me, touch me, and see how I respond."

"THAT was your takeaway from the conversation? That I want to conduct the same kind of ... experiment on you that you did too me?" Indra flinched at the word "experiment" - it sounded so distant and impersonal.

"No. I mean, I don't know. That's why I am asking. I don't know what you want."

"I told you what I want, but you either didn't hear or understand."

"Help me understand!" She was shocked at how pleadingly she said it.

Ross suddenly felt very ashamed. He was irritated at how the night with Indra went and thought he was very clear about why. It bad begun to dawn on him that Indra really didn't understand. This was the first hint of vulnerability that he had seen in their short acquaintance, and it was obvious that "vulnerable" was a new look for her.

"Fine. If you are willing, we can try again."

"Fine. And when we begin again, we should ..."

"Stop. This is sex, not the Normandy Invasion. We are not discussing game plans or roles and responsibilities like this is some project."

"But ..." Indra began, then thought better of it. "OK. When shall we do this?"

"How about Friday, again?"

"Friday?" After her restless night before, she wasn't sure she could wait that long.

"Yes."

Indra sighed. Something in the look on Ross' face told her not to argue. "What time would you like to arrive?"

"No," Ross said, "you are coming to my place."

Indra was drifting further and further out of her comfort zone. She was beginning to have second thoughts, but it would be embarrassing - not to mention rude - to back out after she approached him for a second chance.

"Your place. 8 o'clock?"

"It's a date," which is usually a harmless throwaway phrase, but Ross knew it would rattle her just a little.

* * * *

ADAGIO (slow and easy)

* * * *

The week passed slowly for Indra. She slept better, and the frustrating dreams had abated somewhat, but she had an uncharacteristically difficult time getting herself off. She wanted to relieve some of the stress - and, if she was being honest with herself, apprehension - about her situation with Ross. She was able to gain some relief, but it was not as relaxing as she would have liked. Still, an orgasm is almost always a good thing and when she felt that first wave of pleasure crash through her after several unsuccessful attempts, she began to regain confidence.

She didn't know what to expect when she arrived at Ross' apartment on Friday evening. He was a man, so she was comfortable that she knew her way around him physically. She just didn't know what his demeanor would be. Would he harbor resentment and make this an awkward encounter? Or maybe try to be too aggressive, to establish dominance to balance the somewhat submissive role had had in their previous session? Or, perhaps he'll just be a horny guy who, once the fun started, would be happy to enjoy whatever happened next.

She arrived precisely at 8. She came straight from the hospital and was still dressed in her plain work attire - simple blouse, skirt to her knees. She wasn't sure if he'd think she was being forward by wearing something more tantalizing, so she decided that by coming straight from work, there'd be no question about it. She had shed the lab coat and released her hair from the ponytail, but had applied no makeup or fragrance.

Ross opened the door, leaned down, and planted a soft kiss on her lips - gentle, friendly, affectionate. That was a good sign, Indra thought, then chided herself - was she going to try to analyze every word and movement in real time. Of course she was, she thought.

"Come on in. Welcome." Ross was dressed in a pair of jeans and polo shirt. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Club soda, please." Indra's eyes scanned around the apartment. It was much smaller than hers but well-organized; no clutter, no wasted space. Ross' taste in furniture was better than hers, and he didn't choose a bland color palette typical of bachelors. Ross handed her a glass of club soda. "Show me a around." Indra recalled that he'd been surprised that she hadn't offered to show him her apartment, preferring to get straight to business, so she made a point of changing her behavior. If Ross noticed, he didn't let on.

"Not much to show, but sure." He pointed to a well-stocked galley kitchen, a living room with a love seat facing a 65-inch TV and a small dining table with two chairs. "And the bedroom is through there." She took that as an invitation to proceed and she walked ahead of him into the bedroom.

The first thing she noticed was a neatly made king-size bed. The second thing she noticed was a guitar on a stand sitting next to a small amplifier. Her eyes went wide.

"Oh my god! That's a D'Aquisto archtop. How did you ...? The waiting list for one of these was insanely long, and then he died in 1995."

"My grandfather got on the waiting list years ago and after he died, he passed his spot to my father, who taught me to play. I inherited it when my father passed a few years ago."

"I'm sorry, I didn't ..."

"It's OK," he interrupted.

She ogled the guitar. It was blonde, with an ebony fingerboard and mother-of-pearl inlays, and a single pickup just below the neck. Smooth lines, sensuous curves, glistening finish.

"I didn't know you played," she said, still mesmerized at the rare and beautiful instrument, looking so out of place in this small bedroom.

"How could you know? We've never really spoken about anything. We talked about virtually nothing that night in the club, and we had no time at all for getting to know each other at your place." His tone was not accusatory, just stating facts.

Still, Indra was embarrassed. "You're right, I'm ... sorry." She walked closer the guitar and sat on the edge of the bed closest to it. "Will you ... will you play for me? I'd love to hear it. Hear you."

He picked up the jazz guitar and plugged it into a Fender Deluxe Reverb amp that looked older than Ross. Indra slid down the bed so that Ross could sit down. He removed a pick from between the strings and strummed a chord, and let the tone hang in the air for a moment. It sounded the way a warm blanket feels.

He started slowly, playing a couple of light, bluesy riffs, interspersing single notes and chords. The lazy laid-back sounds belied the skill required to make them, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Indra. The riffs became more complex, and he began to string them together, matching the gentle tapping of his foot against the hardwood floor. A melody began to emerge through a haze of jazz chords; flat-5ths, diminisheds, 13ths with a flat 9, woven together with major, minor, chromatic, and a dozen other scales.

Indra watched in fascination and awe. Having been classically trained, she recognized every chord and scale Ross was playing; it was a vocabulary she knew well. But knowing the vocabulary does not mean you can speak the language, and Ross was speaking a language that she'd heard from time to time, but never this up-close and personal. There was structure, punctuated with the unexpected, dissonance slowly resolving into satisfying chords, only to morph again and again.

Indra admired the strength and speed of Ross's fingers. When she sized up his hands that first night at the Club, she could tell there was strength but had no idea how it had been developed. They were delicate and precise, yet able to move swiftly and stretch to finger difficult chords, chords that Indra never would have thought to choose if it were her playing but once heard she knew that no other chord would have worked. Ross' eyes were closed, his head dreamily swaying as he played

The sound of the guitar, the sight of the man playing it, and the softness of the bed where she sat enveloped in aural delight was having an impact. She felt her skin getting warmer, her face flushed. Her nipples hardened beneath her bra and she began to moisten between her legs. She was startled at how quickly and profoundly this was turning her on.

With a flurry of notes and bends, wrapping a jazzy flourish around the melody he'd flirted with for the past few minutes, Ross struck and held a final chord - a warm, simple reassuring major chord with a single dissonant note added, for spice. A reminder that nothing is ever as clean and easy as you expect in jazz.

Ross opened his eyes and turned to Indra. He was surprised at the look of hunger in her eyes. She placed her hand over his, her cream-colored nails - the only remnant of the feminine allure she had applied before tantalizing Ross at her apartment - digging into his skin. She was caught up in excitement of his unexpected passion and skill.

"That. Please. I want you to do that to me."

"No," Ross replied. Indra was crestfallen, until he added, "but I will do it WITH you."

Indra nodded and took the D'Aquisto from Ross' hand and placed it reverently on its stand. She turned back and Ross stood facing her. She reached and took each hand in hers, caressing his fingers, feeling the callouses on his left hand and the rough skin on the outside of his right thumb where it occasionally grazed the strings. She wanted to know what those fingers could do to her.

Ross lifted his right hand and brought Indra's left hand to his lips. As if he knew what she'd just been thinking about, he rubbed her calloused fingertip across his lips, savoring the rough texture. Indra shivered. He unbuttoned her blouse and slid it off her shoulders, then guided her to turn around. Indra could feel the callouses again as he deftly opened the clasp of her bra. He reached around and cupped each of her breasts. She leaned back and sighed; she could feel warmth radiating off Ross even through his shirt, and his body, like his hands, felt strong and inviting. She giggled, uncharacteristically, as she felt his cock start to harden through his pants. Ross kneaded and caressed her breasts, teasing the nipples with his index finger.

Indra loved the gentle fondling but felt uncomfortably passive. She moved to turn to face Ross, but his arms tightened against her torso, holding her in place. Indra was ready to object until she felt Ross' lips on her neck. Like her breasts, the attention to her neck was unrushed, with no discernible cadence; his lips were taking a random walk across her neck and shoulders. Rather than protest, she leaned harder against him, grinding her butt against his swelling cock. She shimmied out of her skirt.

Ross released a breast and turned Indra's head back toward him and kissed her on the mouth. His grip loosened and Indra turned herself around, rising on tiptoe to lean into the kiss. They explored each other's mouths, teasingly licking and nibbling, until Indra pushed her tongue between his lips. As they kissed, she unbuckled his belt, unfastened his pants, opened the zipper, and pulled; his pants and boxers fell and he stepped out of them, never breaking the kiss. She tugged at the bottom of his shirt, making it clear she wanted his shirt off. They broke the kiss long enough for Ross to pull the polo up over his head. Indra raked her nails against his chest and began her own nipple teasing, which made his cock twitch. She took that as her cue to amp up the action.

Ross had other plans. As soon as Indra reached for his cock, he pushed her hand away and kneeled down, guiding her panties down as he descended. Ross inhaled deeply, letting the luscious musky smell fill his nose.

"Wait, what ..." Indra began, but stopped when Ross' flattened tongue licked up the length of her slit. No teasing, no exploratory kisses like he'd planted on her neck. His mouth on her pussy was forward and unexpected, which made it more exciting.