"ARE you sure it's OK, darling" sobbed Rochelle, her beautiful green eyes brimming with tears. "Are you really, really sure?"
"Of course, beautiful one," replied Mel, stroking her hair, and drawing her closer to him. "Just because I've done stuff like that in the past doesn't mean I need to do it all the time."
"But... But... " Rochelle held Mel tightly, resting her head on his chest.
She would rather not have been reminded of things Mel had done in his past, but apart from that, she was forced to admit, you'd have to go a long way to find a more wonderful guy. His lithe, hard body never failed to turn her on, he was intelligent, witty, generous, protective, cultured, and - and this last was, she was forced to admit in her more self-aware moments, an absolute prerequisite where she was concerned - amazingly patient. No matter how often she threw one of her ridiculous tantrums, or made a spectacle of herself in public, or allowed her insecurity to override her common sense, or committed some intellectual faux pas, he never failed to forgive her.
Why, only a few days before, she recalled, they'd attended that reception for the Spanish Ambassador at Government House. How Mel had obtained the invite, she had no idea - somehow he seemed to know absolutely everyone of importance in the whole City - and of course, she'd made an exhibition of herself, as usual.
All had gone swimmingly, until she had dropped her clutch purse when going into dinner, and bent down to retrieve it. And the tight purple gown that she had been wearing - with no restraining garment underneath to ensure security of fit, for she'd been paranoid about VPL - had, with a loud ripping sound that could probably have been heard throughout the building, split apart at the back from neck to the back of her knees.
Any other guy, she reflected, would have been angry, furious about being shown up in front of the cream of society. Instead, Mel had been sympathy personified, escorting her gallantly from the building, lovingly attentive throughout the cab ride home, kissing away her tears. If anything (which she'd found puzzling in the extreme), his lovemaking had been even more ardent than usual that night.
And that hadn't been the first time such a thing had happened either, she thought, blushing as a series of memories surfaced. They'd been the time she'd attended the party, at the house of the Director of her company, and she'd accidentally attached her suspender to the tablecloth, and pulled the whole lot off, in a cascade of shattered crockery and spilt food and wine. The occasion they'd gone to dinner with his ex, and her skirt had been too short, and she'd spent the whole evening flashing her knickers to the other guests. The night, in Australia, when they'd attended an operetta at the famed Sydney Opera House, and her thigh highs had plunged to the ground multiple times. That time when...
And yet, after such events, there was never a scathing comment, never any coldness. Why, if anything, he was even more loving than usual!
Of course, Mel had his faults. He didn't like tennis, for one thing. Or romantic comedies, or markets, or the Bee Gees. Sometimes, he vanished on mysterious errands for days or weeks at a time, and refused to talk about what he had been doing. He would smoke those filthy cigars in bed. And Rochelle could never be totally, entirely, one hundred percent sure he was always absolutely faithful, though she had no concrete evidence to the contrary. But the way just about every other girl they met seemed to turn into a flirtatious bundle of desire, gazing at him as if the rest of the world did not exist had the power to arouse certain suspicions in her at times.
Still, these minor shortcomings paled into insignificance when compared to his virtues. He was the perfect guy for her, and she'd accept no substitute. Out of the sack or in it.
But it was in it that was causing her current angst. Not that there was any problem with performance, as such. Rochelle had never known she could be such a rutty wench until she'd met Mel, and some of the things he'd taught her had left her (metaphorically and literally) breathless. Their bodies were adventure playgrounds for each other, and sometimes, after he'd stayed the weekend, it had been all she could do to drag herself to her Honda to drive herself to work.
If anything, he was too imaginative. And therein lay (no pun intended) the problem.
Rochelle's upbringing had been, she was forced to admit, on the conservative side. As a shy, nerdy girl, with an absentee father, unable to gain social acceptance into the fast set during her school and college careers, she had been a late starter in the game of love, and a series of disastrous relationships had done little to redress the poor beginning. Somehow, while perfectly cognisant of the facts of reproduction, the more exotic side of concupiscence had always been a closed book to her.
She knew that in the permissive age in which she lived, such inhibition was rare. The gossip exchanged by her friends in coffee shops, bars and at parties, brought that home to her with a vengeance. This girl and her man dressed up as cats, and she'd learned to yowl convincingly as he withdrew. That girl and her lesbian lover were, alternately cowgirls in the old American West or a Sultan and "his" slave girl. Another pair of couples regarded themselves as a four-way marriage, and still found time to invite temporary guests into their bedroom activities for variety. Someone had had sex in a helicopter, while the pilot, heavily bribed not to notice, had flown her and a guy she'd just met over the city centre.
Another pair, when behind closed doors, were Luke Skywalker and Princess Leia, and yet another Snugglepot and Cuddlepie! And what, (she had learned from rumour) could be done with a shower curtain and bottle of baby oil, a silk handkerchief, a pair of handcuffs, or an electronic nerve-stimulator, did not bear thinking about... especially for a girl that could not face even the most mild of double-entendres without blushing beet red!
And Mel, she knew, would have been more than happy to do such things. He'd even come up with a few suggestions that made the other activities she'd heard about (except, perhaps, the Snugglepot and Cuddlepie one) seem positively pedestrian. But, somehow, Rochelle's lack of confidence had let her down, and she'd never quite managed to bring herself to agree to doing any of them!
It's so unfair on him, she reflected, her tears welling again. Other girls do kinky things for their guys. I should be doing them for him!
"It's OK, Roche, really," soothed Mel. "Being with you is ecstasy personified. Your shyness is a real turn on, actually."
"Oh don't be ridiculous," she wailed. "Everyone knows that guys like sexy women. Women like Madonna, or Pink, or Shania Twain, or Beyonce. Confident, sexy, uninhibited, in-control women. Women that ooze sex (she was quoting from the latest edition of Cleo) from every pore!"
"Shania Twain?" His jaw dropped.
"Well, you know what I mean. The sort of women in those porn movies Jack and Suzie watch. I... I feel like some useless little virgin at times. I don't know how you put up with me!"
"Have you ever heard me complain?"
"No, but that's not the point. Y-You're too understanding to complain. That doesn't mean you don't have a right to! I mean... Mel, what are you doing? Mel! I'm trying to have a discussion here. I... I'm baring my soul, and... Look, that's distracting! Yes, I am enjoying it, but that's not the... Mel! Stop that. It's only been ten minutes, you can't possibly want to... it... ooohhhh, Meeeellllll..."
*****
It was an exhausted, yet thoughtful, Rochelle that arrived at work the following Monday. While Mel had temporarily banished her sexual self-doubt, the separation that day to day living enforced meant that it could never be entirely vanquished.
Her ritual morning check of her email, was accompanied by a background of a voice from the next cubicle. Emma, one of the clerks, holding a long, complicated phone call about her weekend recreation, complete with details about the precise temperature of the melted chocolate, and how they'd managed to remove the residue from her boyfriend's hairy chest afterwards.
One of the emails, itself, was a cheery note from her friend Adrienne, concerning a kinky photography session in which she'd indulged with her boyfriend, accompanied by the appropriate illustrations - and which the furiously blushing Rochelle had instantly deleted.
On taking herself down to the staff canteen for a pre-work coffee, she'd fallen in with Felicity, from Purchasing, who had regaled Rochelle with an anecdote about what she'd got up to with her new boyfriend the previous Friday night, and how the seven inch heels had proved quite comfortable after the first hour or so.
Then, upon returning to her own floor, she'd overheard Jarrod from Purchasing describing in full detail how he'd gained membership in the Mile High Club. Even Mr Branigan arrived with a satisfied smile on his normally lugubrious face, suggesting that, his wife being away for the weekend, he'd visited a certain lady in the less respectful part of town, who (according to her advertisements) offered French lessons, Indian massage and "severe correction", whatever that might have been!
I must be the only person in the whole of Edenglassie City who does it normally, she moaned to herself. She sat, brooding, the pile of work in her in tray unnoticed and neglected. This can't go on. I... I'm sure Mel loves me, he proves it constantly. But how long is he going to stay around? He's got to get tired of someone as sexually boring as me, eventually. And it's pretty obvious that he gets plenty of opportunities to... she tried to forced her mind into other tracks, this line of thought being just too depressing.
Morning tea time arrived, without her being able to dissipate her anxiety. By now, however, a resolution had firmed in her mind. This state of affairs, she told herself, must not be allowed to continue.
Arriving at a decision, she stood up, tugged down the hem of her pale green blazer in a determined manner, straightened her skirt (a white knee-length number), and picked up the phone.
"B-Brianna," she said, biting her lip. "Are you free for morning tea?"
*****
