It's never enough, is it? What we have is never enough; we always want more. I dust the flour from my hands as I think about the way my life is going. Married, though the question of happiness is still way up in the air, with children, and wanting to break free of the restraints that bind me. Wanting to soar, and to explore the self I am trying to keep hidden, but which is emerging as if from a long sleep. The self that wears push-up bras in black and red, and stockings with garters to work. The self that browses the shelves of the local larger women's stores looking for the form-fitting stretch jeans and tops, and the thongs and skimpy silk bikinis. The self that buys every salacious Harlequin Blaze novel, and every other novel with sexually explicit, even pornographic writing, and devours them with my three meals. The self that secretly watches the men who pass in and out of my life with a hungry desire to know them
I pour the batter into the two baking pans, put them in the wall oven, and shut the door with a snap. The phone rings, and I hurry over to get it before it wakes the house. Oh, did I forget to mention that it is six o'clock in the morning? Yes, it's dark out, because the sky is overcast, and the chances of rain are 99.9%.
"Hello?" I say quietly into the phone.
"Sorry to call so early, dear," my mother says, "but I wanted to get you before you left for work. When Mike is coming in today, ask him to bring the old barbecue grill with him, please. We've decided to do that potluck outdoors after all, like you suggested."
"Sure, Ma," I agree, and add, "Would you like some cake for the party? I've two in the oven. I can send one down, too."
"Send?" she asks. "You not coming in today?"
"No," I answer. "I'm taking a mental health day."
"Well, if you're sure..." She sounds hesitant. My mother never wants to "take food out of her babies' mouths", as she likes to say.
"It's okay, Ma," I say. "I'll send the smaller one."
Two hours later, the house is quiet, except for the hum of the dishwasher, and the washing machine. Even the radio, which I normally keep on, is off. I want to be free to think about my new interest. As I lie back on the wide old leather couch, with the laptop in my lap, my mind wanders over the first time we talked online, my new interest and me.
It had been a long conversation, for a first meeting, but we had had a lot to say about a variety of subjects. He was looking for escape, and I was looking for answers. Neither of us could help the other except here, in this space. And so we had talked - about his wife, his children, his job, our shared interest in erotica, my husband, my children, our shared interest in history. There had been a lot of inadvertent and meaningless flirting, of the totally ordinary sort - emoticons with smiling faces, or winking eyes, or bared teeth. Nothing even remotely sexual. We had said goodbye, with him not holding out any expectations of future chats, and me not asking.
I read my friends' blogs while I wait, half expecting him not to say hello. I have taken this day off work deliberately, because I know he is off too, and I want to give him some of my undivided attention. And I want to get his. For as long as he was willing to give it.
The little messenger jumps in the dock as a conversation window opens. The icon is a hug.
"Mornin', Miss Kitty!"
My heart does a little happy dance, a smile plays about my lips, and I type, "Back at ya, Sir!" I add a wink and send it.
A wink greets my comment, and a "Hello, darlin'!" I wait, and "Sleep well?" appears under the first comment. He always asks me if I've slept well, so I've learned to wait for it.
"Like a baby!" I reply. "You?"
"Likewise," he answers.
There is a pause, while the screen tells me "Sir Knight is typing".
I let my head fall back against the smooth, cool surface of the sofa, and wait for whatever he will say.
"So..."
I smile. Always a pause before the words that will jumpstart an erotic conversation.
"Penny for your thoughts..."
"Have you ever met any of your friends from here?" I type.
"Yes," he replies, after a pause. "A long time ago."
"And?" I prod, anxious to hear more.
"What do you want to know?"
"What was it like? What happened?"
I watch him tell me what he's doing: "smiles, folds arms."
"We met at a conference, actually. It was unplanned, and we would have missed each other, except that we were online at the same time, and discovered we were in the same hotel, three floors apart."
"She's also a banker?" I am incredulous.
"No. I said that badly. We met when I was at a conference. She was chairing an annual meeting of her Learned Society in the same hotel."
"What happened?" I repeat.
"We had a pleasant lunch meeting on her last day at the hotel. In the dining room. Cosy, intimate."
"Tell me about her," I prompt. "Is she married? Does she live around where you do? Are you still friends?"
"Yes, but we don't chat as much anymore." The pause this time is longer, before he adds, "It was a special afternoon, for both of us, I think." Another blip in time, and then he asks me, "Why do you ask?" I note that he hasn't answered most of the questions I have asked him. I remember his words to me: "A gentleman never tells..." and I smile.
"I was just wondering what it would be like if we met..."
Seems like only yesterday we had that conversation. He writes: "smiles". I smile as I post my reply: "You're the one with the gift of gab, mister, the one who's kissed the blarney stone. You're the one who would make the magic." "You think so?" he asks, and I can almost hear the laugh in his voice. "Where would we meet?" I ask. He doesn't answer for a long minute, and I begin to wonder if I am pushing the envelope too much. Maybe he's not willing to play this game anymore. I decide to give him an out, without hurting his pride. "Never mind, love. It won't happen, so why speculate?" He is typing when I make my hurried response. He stops. "So, is your house quiet?" I continue, not giving him a chance to speak. "Everyone asleep?" "No, actually. I'm in the basement. Remember I told you we were house hunting." It suddenly strikes me that we haven't spoken to each other in weeks. It seems he's moved. "A basement? Nice. I guess you've set up an office down there, right?" I pause, then add, "Cam?" "And speakers!" he replies immediately, then adds a grinning emoticon. I laugh. "So, maybe we can talk sometime," I say. "Maybe," he returns, holding out no promise. "When the time is right." "And when will THAT be?" I want to know. "We'll know when the moment is right. Just like we have in the past." He adds another emoticon, this time a wink, and asks, clearly changing the subject, "Everything quiet on your end?" "Yes, everyone's gone to school or work." "Why aren't you at work, too, Miss Kitty?" "I needed a mental health day," I say, playing it off, not willing to let him know I have taken the day because I know he's off and I want to be with him. This obsession is getting to be more serious than I know how to handle. "Wanna play?" he asks. If he were speaking into my ear, I could not have been more immediately aroused than I suddenly was. "What?" I hedge. "Truth or dare!" he says at once. And then he waits. I know he's waiting. I type "ok" in the box and hit the return button. And my belly begins to quiver. He writes what he is doing: "sits back and smiles"
"Why do you come by every night?"
We have talked about this before, so I know he's giving me an easy one to start off, and I answer readily. "I enjoy your company, the pleasant, often...stimulating conversation. You know that."
"Stimulating? Explain..."
Here is where it gets tricky. I don't want to lie, but the whole truth will lead to questions I cannot answer without possibly jeopardizing our relationship. I hedge.
"Isn't it my turn to ask Truth or Dare?"
I can hear him chuckle knowingly, a split second before a wink and a grinning emoticon appear before my eyes, and "LOL". He writes "smiles"
