Womanly Woman

Chapter 1: Steve Writing

My eyes were drawn to her. As soon as she entered the lounge, my eyes were drawn to her. The people sitting around me eating bagels, muffins, or happy meals, the crackling announcements of flights to other places, and the gray vinyl seats and stained blue carpets-they faded away. My eyes were drawn to her.

She was blond, but whether it was her own color or borrowed I couldn't tell. She wasn't tall-maybe five-four. Her figure wasn't statuesque. It was voluptuous. Yes, I think that's the best word for it-voluptuous. Rounded, swelling, bubbling, overflowing, mouthwatering, voluptuous. But there was more, and a more I treasured. She looked warm, comfy, inviting. Her clothing was attractive, tasteful, not gaudy, but just right for her. She wore an elegant, flowing, rose silk blouse, a couple undone buttons guiding the eye to inviting cleavage. The blouse was tucked into well-cut jeans that hugged her form warmly. On her feet were creamy red leather high-heeled sandals.

Her face was beautiful, the face of a Lands' End model. Not gaunt, but full and warm and approachable, yet wonderfully angelic and cute at the same time. It was her smile, I think, flashing from across the room, that caught me. It's not that she was smiling at me-she hadn't seen me. But her teeth were perfect, and they flashed with joy, with happiness, with mischief. I was smitten.

I watched as she made her way to the ticket counter and spoke to the agent. How old was she? I didn't know. She was maybe forty-five, forty-eight, but with a beauty transcending age. She had the beauty of a woman of forty, of thirty, of twenty-all at once. She combined the warmth and grace of experience and maturity with the joyful anticipation of youth. I watched her. She traveled with a man her age who was clearly mentally handicapped. She was solicitous, good-natured. She was his guardian, it seemed.

I watched her. When she spoke, at times, she bubbled. I watched her when she didn't speak. At times her face seemed sad, wistful. At other times it seemed serene. It was always lovely. But she was far away, halfway across the room, and I went back to my book, D. H. Lawrence's "The Rainbow," rather less impressive than I'd hoped.

My flight was called. I was near the back, next to the window. Not my favorite spot. Front aisle was more to my taste. I prayed for an empty center seat, but the stewardess announced over the intercom that the flight would be full. No luck. I prayed for someone little who would leave me the armrest.

I watched people come down the aisle. "Not him," I thought. "I'll bet it's them." "Oh, please, not those people."

But then she came, behind the retarded man, who was bobbing along with a big goofy grin. They were coming my way. The plane was almost full. Closer. Yes. They peered at the row numbers. It was my row.

She pulled a suitcase on wheels and carried a bag and a purse. She tried to lift the suitcase to the last empty space in the overhead compartment. She couldn't. The retarded man hadn't noticed her need. I leapt up. "May I help?" I asked. The suitcase was full, but I easily lifted it and wedged it into place and closed the compartment door. I returned to my seat.

"I think you have the center seat," she said to retarded man, starting to help him in. My heart sank. He would talk the whole way. I would get no rest. He would drive me crazy.

"I want this one," the man said, pointing to the aisle seat. "I don't know that man." He laughed.

"Alright," said my lovely lady. She slid in next to me. "Sorry," she said. Sorry? I wasn't sorry at all! She helped her companion sit down and stowed away their bags under the seats in front of them.

She tried to buckle her seatbelt, but it was too tight. The previous occupant of the seat had been a bit less voluptuous. She looked embarrassed, as if the seat were shouting out her waist size. She tugged. It didn't loosen.

"May I help you?" I said. She blushed and said yes. Her left hand was on the buckle. My left hand closed over hers, soft, small, and warm. The warmth seemed to flash up my arm. My right hand reached across, grabbed the other end of the buckle, lifted up. The strap loosened at once. My forearm was pressing against her waist. Her waist was soft. It gave a little. I could feel her through my forearm. The hairs on my arm were transmitting her to my brain.

"Thank you," she said. She in turn helped the man beside her, who was quite puzzled by his seatbelt.

I was immersed in my novel. I don't generally talk to people on planes. Maybe I'm too shy. I smile, I watch, sometimes I talk a little, but generally not much.

I watched her. She was one of the loveliest women I had ever seen. She was better close up than from a distance, and she was striking from a distance. Did she know I was watching her? Could she sense me watching from the corner of my eye? Did she notice my head turn? I don't know. I watched her. Her eyes were green, a lovely light green, thin jade with a light behind it. Her lips were pink rose, almost the same color as her blouse, and they were full and soft. Her skin was lovely, glowing with health.

The stewardess guided us through crash procedures. We taxied. We rose into the air.

I watched her. If a woman is too thin, the time comes in her forties when lines form in her face. If she has a little more padding, is more comfortable, there are pads of flesh on her face that thicken a little. I suppose this can be a bit unnerving to a man in his twenties. I'm fifty. I admire it. She was aging beautifully, gracefully. She was utterly beautiful, but not twenty, not thirty, not forty. She was better. Her face wasn't hardening. It was softening. Her skin was luminous. Her hair was luminous. Her teeth were luminous. Merely having her next to me was a gift. I watched her as I would watch a campfire. I watched her as I would watch a doe in the woods. I watched her as I would watch a newborn. I watched her as I would watch the tenderest of lovers. I watched her.

There's always a little battle on airplanes over armrests. Men will sit with arms folded for hours, their necks and shoulders aching, rather than let their arms touch the arms of other men on armrests. Women are often overpowered by men who, knowing their own strength and asserting it, take the armrests for themselves. Women are often afraid of being touched, of touching, lest they give the wrong impression. I don't want to make women uncomfortable. I'm usually polite, but careful not to impose myself unless interest is signaled.

At first I was careful to leave her room. I took the front half of the armrest and left her the back. But then her arm touched mine. I thought she would flinch away, perhaps apologize. That's what usually happens. She didn't. She was talking with the retarded man, leaning toward him. He had a hundred questions. I smiled to hear her reassuring him in her low, full, round, lovely voice. Her arm rested companionably next to mine. We both wore short sleeves. I could feel her naked arm. It was not a little arm. It was full, round, not an arm to encircle between thumb and forefinger. It was an arm to adore. It was so soft, so soft. Now and then I would move my arm a little, up, down, as if adjusting it. No, it was only to feel her arm against mine.

The people in the row in front of us leaned their seats back. I'm tall. I had to spread my legs to avoid having my knees crushed. My thigh brushed hers. Her legs, full and round in designer jeans, were also spread. I thought she would move her thigh away. There was room. She didn't. She let it stay there. I could feel our thighs together through our jeans, our arms together skin to skin.

Voluptuous. She was voluptuous. She filled out her seat and spread out a little into mine. A round, healthy roll of flesh pressed lightly against my side. I loved it.

Our meals came. It was cramped. Our trays were down. We ate. She helped the retarded man open his sandwich, his potato salad, his cookies, his napkin. Now and then, as if adjusting myself, I lifted my thigh an inch and brought it back down. I merely wanted the sensation of her thigh moving against mine. As I ate, I moved my arm more, up and down. She did not pull back, did not remove her arm.

The meal over, the movie started. She had bought a headset for the retarded man, though not for herself, and he avidly watched the little TV hanging from the overhead compartment. The lovely lady put her head back against the headrest, but it was uncomfortable. Her pillow was in the small of her back. I offered her mine. She thanked me and smiled. The smile far repaid my little gift.

But it wasn't comfortable for her. She couldn't find rest. Our tray tables were down though our trays were gone. "Try this," I said. I showed her how I rest on planes, with my elbows on the tray table, my forehead against the seat in front of me, my head between my hands, which are resting on the seat. She put the pillow against the seat in front of her, crossed her arms on the tray table, and rested.

Somehow, this brought our arms closer together. I loved the creamy smooth feel of her arm. Our thighs still touched. I began gently lifting and dropping my leg, and our thighs and calves were touching. Our arms were touching. I slid my arm quietly back and forth against hers.

After about fifteen minutes she turned her face, looking a bit dreamy, crushed, sleepy-looking, to mine, next to her. "You are very, very nice," she said simply. Her breath was pleasant, human.

"Thank you," I said. "You are very soft and beautiful." She smiled and returned her face to the pillow.

The first movie ended. The man beside her figured out his seatbelt, rose, and made his way to the toilet.

The lovely lady turned toward me again. To my shock, she kissed me gently on the cheek. Her cheek against mine felt like the softest velvet. "What's your name?" she said.

"Steve," I said. "What's yours."

"Cassandra."

"Is the man your brother?" I asked.

"No, I work at a state home. He's institutionalized, but learning to live on his own. He's on a visit to California to visit relatives. I'm helping him get there."

"That's very kind of you," I said, "but just what I'd expect you to do."

"I'm well paid," she said. "I'll be staying several days, until he's acclimatized. He'll be staying several months if things work out."

When she turned toward me to kiss my cheek, somehow my right hand had fallen comfortably on her leg. I left it there. She didn't move it. I gently squeezed her knee, traced my finger around her patella. I stroked gently the inside of her thigh, halfway up. I gazed hungrily, admiring her eyes, drinking in every detail of her face, her hair-naturally dirty blond, but streaked ash blond and with becoming gray hairs interspersed.

The retarded man returned, sat down. Cassandra helped him with his seatbelt. The next movie was starting, and the man positioned his headphones.

Cassandra lifted up the armrest between us, pushing it back between the seats. She again crossed her arms on the tray table and put her head on the pillow against the seat in front of her. I took her right hand with my left. It was a soft hand. All of her was soft and lovely. I squeezed. She squeezed back. The luscious ripeness of her warm side pressed against me. She was nestling against me. She liked this!

She was wearing open-toed and open-backed heels of red leather. I was wearing black leather slip-on shoes. I had noticed her beautiful feet. I slipped off my left shoe and gently rubbed my left foot, clad in its thin nylon sock, over her sandal, over her toes. Then I removed my other shoe. Silently, using only my feet, I led her to pull her left foot out of its sandal. With my feet I caressed hers, sliding my feet over her toes, under her toes, under her instep, rubbing my instep over the top of her foot, caressing her heel with both of my insteps.

With my right hand I caressed her left arm, reveling in the softness of it, the fullness of it. I took her hand with my right hand, and my left hand caressed her thigh, gently, slowly, the inside of her thigh. Against the back of my right hand I could feel the swell of her breast. I rubbed the back of my hand gently against it. I reached my left hand up and gently traced the swell of her breast, the soft roundness of it. I could feel her nipple. I gently traced it with my finger. She didn't speak, didn't move. She only breathed deeply. I was hard. I thought of placing her hand on me. How would she react? But I didn't. Instead, I savored this less overt but wonderfully sweet body of sensations.

It was a five-hour flight, but I'd swear it was only two. I was immersed in rapture, captured by an angel, not an angel of lust, but an angel of sweet desire. We could have chatted happily, I suppose, but instead we chose silence and slow time.

We landed. We taxied. The ramp drew up to the plane. The others got off first. The retarded man rose and moved into the aisle. Cassandra rose to help him. I rose to help with her suitcase.

As Cassandra helped her ward, I quietly glanced at the luggage tags. There were two. One was an address in Pennsylvania. One was an address in Los Angeles. There were phone numbers. Sometimes my memory works better than others. I read quickly but carefully. I remembered.

We made our way off the plane. Cassandra and her ward stopped at the agent's desk to ask for assistance. "It was a pleasure meeting you," I said to Cassandra.

"You, too," she smiled. "Thanks for everything."

I walked down the hallway to the nearest restroom. I grabbed a paper towel. I scribbled down the two addresses and phone numbers.

Chapter 2: Cassandra Writing

As Cassandra is leaving the plane she couldn't help but think about this mystery man and how she had enjoyed the previous five hours. It was the first time she hadn't wanted a long flight to end.

She was thinking what a handsome man, with light brown hair, some graying. A goatee, also graying in all the right places, gave him a distinguished look. His voice was soft and low. The faint curve of his mouth was more of a grin then a smile, very mysterious, his blue eyes very piercing. He smelled good, not perfumy but good, a smell she could get used to.

The big turn on was his strong looking but well manicured hands. Oh those hands, there was such passion in his touch. His touch was electrifying, making her want him so bad. He had a gentle way about him-she felt so relaxed, yet just kissing him on the cheek was jolting. She wondered if he had also felt it.

When his hand was on her knee, her heart was beating so hard. She was moaning softly inside, wanting to just open her legs wider and move his hand higher. The ultimate temptation was wanting him to feel how wet she had gotten. She thought they both would have been delighted. She had wanted to place her hand on his visibly swelling erection. She wondered if he knew she had noticed it or if he thought she hadn't. When he had touched her breast and then her nipples she felt herself come to a climax. Being a women who has multiple orgasms and very sensitive to touch, she was very wet by the time the flight was over.

Lost in her thoughts, she had not heard Joe saying, "I have to go! I have to go!" He was clutching his groin as if he would wet himself any minute. Oh My God! Hold it in, Joe. Please, not here. "Hurry," he said. "Joe has to go bad." She found a rest room for him, then her mind went back to Steve.

She wondered if he was as attracted to her as she was to him. Or was this something he did all the time? He looked like a man well traveled, very worldly. She wondered if a man like this could be attracted to a simple country girl like herself. Not to say that she was not sophisticated-she had a very sophisticated way about her, but always thought of herself as a country girl. After all, she thought, they say opposites attract.

With that thought in mind it came to her that she would never see him again. I should have asked him to dinner or something, she thought. She looked back to see if he was maybe walking around still. He was nowhere in sight. She was disappointed.

She sat on a bench and waited for Joe, the man she was caring for, hoping that Steve would come walking by her. Her heart pounded with the thought that she might see him and have to step out of her comfort zone and ask him to dinner. But instead her heart slowly sank. Steve didn't come her way.

She then stood up to go find a taxi. After getting in the car, she called her sister Linda to tell her about her flight. Linda and Cassandra were close and told each other everything. Needing to tell someone, she hoped Linda would be home.

Linda answered. "Hello!" Cassandra said. "I've landed and we're on our way to Joe's sister's house."

"How was your flight? Did Joe act up?"

"No, thank God. Surprisingly, he was very good."

Linda said, "I'm glad to hear that. I know Joe can get upset and violent at times. I was worried for you that he would act out."

"No, actually, I had a very pleasant flight, I sat next to a very handsome man."

"You did? Hmm. So did you get to know him?"

"I did! I guess you could say we were playing footies."

"Playing what?" Linda said.

"Well, he took his shoe off and was rubbing my foot, and I took my sandal off and played back."

"Well that's a first. I've never heard of such a thing happening on a plane. I think you read too many romance novels." They both laughed. "So did you get his number or did you give him yours?

"No, that's the upsetting part. Linda, this man was hot. I mean, very hot! He's the man of my dreams! Really! I have dreamed so many times of a man like him."

Linda said, "Do you know his name?"

"Yes, it's Steve."

"Do you know his whole name?"

Cassandra said, "No! If I did I would call every hotel in the area to try to find him."

Linda said, "Did you tell him where you were staying?"

"Well, I don't think so. I did say I would be staying in the area for awhile," Cassandra said. "I guess this was not the time to be shy." Feeling very sad, she said, "I'll never see him again."

Linda replied, "I can't believe you played footies with a man and didn't even get his full name or where he is staying."

Cassandra said, "Linda, I have to go. I'm at Joe's sister's house."

"Okay," Linda said. "Be sure to call me again sometime this week.

"Okay, I will," Cassandra said. "Bye."

Chapter 3: Steve Writing

I had a rental car reserved at LAX, but I still had to wait in line for half an hour before I could get the key. The car was comfortable, silent, and the air conditioner worked. It came with good directions away from the airport, and in a few minutes I was in the usual L. A. traffic-one minute at 75, two minutes at 45, one minute at 0, then repeat. I took I-105 to I-110, then drove north past Century City and up to Pasadena.

Los Angeles grows on you-like a mole, a wart, a melanoma. You eventually get used to it, unless it kills you. Coming from the green hills of Pennsylvania in the summer, I found L. A. horrifying-all city all the time. But I knew that in a day or two I would get used to it again and find it easier to see its beauty.

When I'd first visited L. A., forty years before, when I was a boy, the city that's there now barely existed. There were a hundred little towns with mountains and deserts and miles of orange groves and vineyards between them. When I lived there in the seventies those groves were being cut down. Today, even the mountains are pared away, and hundreds of thousands of houses have been planted. They are often lovely, as if various Italian and Spanish hill towns had wafted across the Atlantic and landed on the Southern California hills, but there are so many of them!

The time to visit L. A. is late December, before the January rains hit. The weather is comfortable: short sleeve shirt temperature in the day, sweater temperature at night. The sky is blue. The mountains wear berets of snow on their heads. But this was summer.