I didn't pay all that much attention to Holly Blake when we were growing up. She was a tomboyish skinny kid that crossed paths with me from time to time but we had nothing in common other than the neighborhood where we lived just outside of Columbia, South Carolina. Everyone knew that her father had died when she was very young and that her mother had never remarried, choosing instead to sell real estate and devote the rest of her time to raising her daughter. From my perspective, that wasn't working out so well.
Holly was several years behind me in school, still in junior high, when I graduated. The last time I saw her she was on a skateboard. She had braces on her teeth, scabs on her knees, and her long blonde hair looked like she'd been combing it with an egg beater. She was a mess. It would be several years before I gave her another thought.
****
My name is Dustin Rhodes. Everyone calls me 'Dusty' for obvious reasons. Other than the nickname, there is nothing whatsoever about me that is memorable.
Never one to put out any more effort in school than absolutely necessary, I had a lackluster academic record and no interest in attending college. Lacking other prospects, the Navy seemed like an acceptable option so I enlisted for four years. Six months later I was a junior electrician on a destroyer based out of Pearl Harbor.
Pearl Harbor is a long way from my hometown so I rarely went home on leave to visit family, preferring instead to chase women, with limited success, around Hawaii and the Pacific Rim whenever my ship was in port.
My first real sexual experience was with a hooker in the Philippines, which was physically gratifying but emotionally unrewarding. She was energetic enough but it was clear she was already anticipating her next client. When I shared my thoughts with a shipmate, I was given blunt advice.
"You're supposed to fuck 'em, not fall in love with 'em."
Taking his advice to heart, I continued my dalliance with ladies of the night whenever my ship's schedule and the contents of my wallet permitted.
Shortly after my second year on board, the ship entered a three-month maintenance period at the Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard. A week later I met Alexandra Davis, a project scheduler in the offices of the shipyard's electrical department. Alex, as she preferred to be called, was five years older and, as I would soon find out, far more worldly. I was immediately smitten. A relatively tall slim brunette with short hair, she had splendid breasts, a pair of elegant legs, and a sparkling personality. I didn't know it at the time, but my true sexual education was about to commence.
On our third date, a Friday night, Alex subtly hinted that intercourse would likely cap off our evening. I got the message and was feverishly in rut by the time we got to her apartment after dinner and a movie. Drawing on my vast experience obtained with a half dozen hookers, I began to paw at her body seconds after shutting her front door.
"Not so fast, sailor!" she admonished, pushing me away and straightening her blouse. Time is money to a hooker so it never occurred to me that sex should be a slow, measured process that might involve pleasure for anyone but me. I was about to be enlightened.
"Have you ever had sex with anyone other than a Subic Bay prostitute?"
"Uh...there were a couple of hookers on Guam," I offered.
"Jesus." she muttered, shaking her head but smiling a little at me for completely missing her point. "If you're going to spend time with me, things will be different. Starting now. Do you know how to open a bottle of wine? I mean with a cork screw, as opposed to breaking the bottle neck off on the edge of my countertop."
"That I can manage," I croaked, suddenly aware that this woman might be out of my league.
"Good. Follow me," she ordered as she spun on her heel. Marching off toward the kitchen, she retrieved a bottle of Chardonnay from her refrigerator, an opener from a drawer, and two glasses from a cupboard.
"Make yourself useful," she ordered. "I'll be right back."
My heart leaped into my throat at the thought of her slipping into something more comfortable. I had just finished filling the glasses when she reappeared and my heart fell back into place with a thud. She had been wearing a lacy blouse and a short skirt at dinner. She was now dressed in jeans and a tee shirt; a tee shirt that was tightly tucked into her waistband. Getting into her pants suddenly seemed like a much more difficult task than I had imagined earlier.
"Follow me," she said as she relieved me of one of the glasses and headed back out to her living room.
"Have a seat," she directed with a gesture toward one end of her sofa. I complied and she sat at the opposite end, the distance between us clearly intended. It was now apparent that I had fucked up big time.
"We will not be having sex tonight. I'm no longer in the mood. But we have a bottle of wine to kill so let's use the time to clear up a few matters."
"Sure," I replied. What else could I say while I tried to hide my disappointment?
"If, and I do mean if, we have sex at some point in the future there will be some rules that require your compliance."
"O...Okay," I stammered, feeling like a chastised schoolboy.
"Since you have been fooling around with prostitutes, you will wear a condom until such time as you can provide me with medical evidence that you haven't picked up a disease somewhere."
"Okay," I said, once again demonstrating my conversational skills.
"Furthermore, you need to understand your role. Since you've never had sex with anyone but a hooker, you don't know anything about normal women. I'll have to train you properly if we continue down this path."
"Why are you bothering with me at all?" I asked, now feeling completely humbled. "With your personality and good looks you can probably take your pick of a thousand guys on the island."
"Because I like you. Plus I'm reluctant to pass up an opportunity to educate a rookie," she answered with a smile.
"I'm trainable," I said, returning her smile. "I promise."
"Good. Do you know what a good lover's purpose is during sex, other than providing the necessary equipment?"
"Not really. Hooker's aren't very good teachers. They want it over with as soon as possible so they can work their next john. My only other experience was some clumsy groping with a girl or two in high school. It was exciting but didn't lead anywhere."
"Fair enough," she answered as she polished off her glass of wine. "If we have sex, your job will be to help me achieve orgasm. Men are virtually guaranteed an orgasm. With women it's not a sure thing. I'm pretty orgasmic but I don't cum every time I have sex. Will you refill our glasses, please?" she added, suddenly changing course.
"Sure," I replied as my face began to flush. I had never been confronted with such candor from a woman before and I had very little knowledge of female orgasms. I knew that hookers often faked them but I had never witnessed, nor participated in, the genuine article.
When I returned with recharged glasses, Alex took up where she left off.
