Lovely Ms Erryn

I had not known her name, at least not as she stood before me, working her way through her own internal dialogue with a stranger poised before her. I wondered as I spoke what she must be thinking behind her bright eyes.

"James Wilson," I offered my hand, " I'm in charge of the museum here."

She did not take it at first, there were still lists of questions behind those intelligent eyes, most of which revolved around why she had been singled out by me, with so many around the museum.

"Nice to meet you James?" It was not a wary response, she was too kind to offer even the most minor of insults without having more information. It was quizzical, a request for more, an opening to begin.

"Ah yes, what exactly does the director of the museum want? Did you inadvertently pocket a pack of gum in the gift shop? No. " I winked at her as she smiled. " I saw you taking an interest in the bronze, one of my favorites. If my observations are correct, this may be your 4th trip back to see it in as many days."

I saw the sparkle in her eyes and wondered exactly where this was going. Would she think me observant or a stalker? What was her interest in the figure? All a variety of avenues to be explored if she allowed.

She smiled her response as again her attention was drawn to the Dancer by Rodin. "It's quite beautiful, isn't it? I don't really know what draws me back to it, I just know I love it and honestly, photos do it no justice."

She referred to the images captured in the gift shop, souvenirs for those unable to return to see the real item in person. She was correct, there was no earthly way to recapture the beauty of the figure other than witnessing it in person. It's lines and grace were unimaginably poetic, it moved with a subtle stillness.

"There is a lot to appreciate in this piece, Rodin was particularly adept at capturing movement, if you move clockwise with the piece, you can almost see her dance." I offered an arm and walked her slowly around the sculpture as she took in the effects of their movement.

"Mr Wilson," there was a brief second, her face paled, and then the laughter began to build. "I'm so sorry. Dennis the Menace just bounced through my mind, you must get that all the time." She must have thought better of the comment, as I bore no likeness to the old man in the comics, besides the name.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that you look like..." She was off again, this time somewhat subdued, but so refreshingly giddy.

I have in fact been exposed to it more and more as I have aged. The likelihood that those with less years would continue to address me as Mr. Wilson was only enhanced by the distance placed between the popularity of the old cartoon and the exposure of those of a younger age. Still I delighted to hear her laughter. It brought no memories back, it was a free and easy laugh, something that I not only appreciated but was compelled to join.

"Think nothing of it, but if you cause any destruction here, I may be forced to call you Denise! Unless there is something else I can call you! And Please – Call me James." There was that comfortable period as laughter dies, it seems to be a defining moment in friendships.

"Erryn, please call me Erryn." She did not search for a tissue to dab at her eyes, did not worry incessantly about her makeup, as she seemed to be wearing a minimum. She was as elegant as she was unpretentious.

I had seen her on her many visits, and oddly enough, it was not her fiery mane that attracted me to her, not even her interest in the statue, though that added to the draw, no, it had been her exquisitely sculptured legs. She had sat with a group of 10 or more when the exhibit was first opened, and as ceremonies go, I had taken his place to the left of the curator, introducing him and giving him the opportunity to discuss the newest items before allowing entry. She had been on the right side of the seated guests, her foot moving in slow circles as she waited; not impatient, more of a rhythmic anticipation. Her skirt allowed a view of her delicate calves as first one rotated above the other, only to be exchanged mid ceremony as she rotated the right. I was captured by the anatomy of her, drawn to it as I might have been a work of art. Little did I know there was much more to worship than the turn of her ankle.

The remainder of their time that day was spent wandering the museum, the grounds and coffee in the garden, a much more private area, but still ultimately visible by the patrons, and certainly not secluded, but the garden was not the draw of the Broad Museum, it was the interior. For me, the draw sat across from me as we sipped and discussed our lives.

I have been with the Broad since it opened in 2011, she had been attending UCLA for the same timeframe, studying architecture. I was a man of 43 years now, she had just turned 23, I apologized for missing her birthday, though 2 weeks was somewhat more belated than an apology should be allowed to cover. We talked for the better part of the day, though I could tell from her more frequent checks of the time that she had obligations she was ignoring.

It was nearly 5 pm when we parted that day, she had a paper due and I had my own litany of unfinished business. It was an amicable parting, and I wished her well with her paper as she strode out of the building. I was back to enjoying the turn of her ankle, as she moved effortlessly down the marble entry. Her skirt played with my eyes as did her hips, what a dance of fabric. I did not allow myself to think about what such a body might look like, though any variety of nude figures, paintings and drawing were nearby. She left as she had entered, capturing me with her movement.

He was so imaginative in his youth, he believed calling her Scarlet was inventive and unique, and it stayed his name for her long after he learned her real name. It might have seemed a pet name, but he had written subpar poetry to her under that moniker, at least a dozen lame and never to be heard songs and even a sonnet of sorts, unfinished though it might remain.

Scarlet was a friend of his older sister, that provided him ample opportunity to fawn over her, ask her questions that she might be apt to ignore from a stranger. And she was affable enough to attempt not to disillusion him, though he took it as a sign that there might be more than just a conversation between them.

"Would you ever go out with me?" He asked, almost childlike, the circles of his eyes wide with expectation.

"If you were older, I just might." She would laugh that cheerful laugh, embarrassed as she might be by his attention, my attention. You see, I was that young man, and she, she was that one true thing in my youth.

Scarlet was just shy of my height, and though I have grown a fraction since that time, she would have been about six inches shorter than my 6 feet in height. She was thin, though not gaunt. Scarlet was after all perfection to me. She was modest, never revealing anything more than a young catholic might, at least not the good catholic girls. That is a debate that will live on in my mind, having met some exceptionally "good" catholic girls later in my life.

Her hair was not to be ignored, always dressed in long curls around her face, the rest flowing long down her back. She made a statement the moment she entered the room. Scarlet was not brash, she was the epitome of a girl next door, a very sweet, languid girl next door. I often found myself in later life trying to equate her to someone everyone knew, perhaps a red headed Jessica Lange. But even that comparison dulled in reality.

One of the most endearing qualities about her was the manner in which she blushed, and I learned to seek out ways to make her blush. Her cheeks would turn pink, and if the matter held more weight, you could see the flush spread across her chest, connecting her light freckling in a mass of red. Her freckles were not invisible, but as she blushed or took on sun, they surfaced like poppies in the spring.

Those were the memories of a longing that was not to be, a fondness that was one sided and faded into the slides of a photographic memory scrapbook. Only to be pulled out when a scent or sight, a sound or some other reminder dragged the dusty book back to the surface.

It was long after Scarlet that I met her, and she, like Scarlet was a vision. I had never felt the draw as I had with Scarlet in the past, and honestly, red hair became a sort of deterrent, a unhappy reminder. This was not the case with Erryn. Here he found a match in many things, not the least of which was a willingness to be charmed by him, though he had past 20 years since Scarlet had been the vision of perfection.

Erryn was thoughtful, friendly, outspoken with a touch of reservation. She knew her mind, her body, her wants and desires and felt empowered to speak her mind on things that mattered to her. Such a welcome change from his former imagination, as he had nothing but his imagination with which to compare.

Erryn had red locks, a lithe frame and a figure that made him quiver at times, thinking about the way she moved, she was real, exceptional, and in front of him, waiting for him to speak.

It was a night like any other for us as friends, enjoying a laugh, chuckling about the father and daughter comments, or the outright smirks of those potentially offended by our blatant retorts of not being related. Was it a game we played with each other or a game we played for others? There were the exchanges of giving the stares something to talk about. But we managed to keep it above board, nothing too salacious was ever to be seen. There was an occasional platonic kiss, or hand holding for show, but really, it seemed to be a way to silence others, or incite them.

After a particularly poignant episode with a new host at a local eatery we had come to call our place, one who seemed intent on hitting on Erryn, there was an exchange which included the young man acquiescing to her demands that he stop bothering her, citing that her father was probably to blame. I took the opportunity to pull her from the flaming debate and kissed her squarely on the lips – my eyes locked on his. Erryn provided the punctuation mark, "You're right, if my father were here, he would not approve of you!"

There was a giggling quiet to the start of the evening, but I spotted that glow in her eyes yet again, and it burned throughout our time that night. She touched her lips once, as if in memory, and when she saw me catch her, she mouthed the word 'wow'. I think that was my undoing.

My hand found its way to her thigh often as the evening wore on, she covered it from time to time with her own. The laughter was more subdued, the time still just as enjoyable, as though the laughter had covered some sense of nervousness we experienced. I had never noticed it, not until it disappeared. We made our way to the car, her hand in mine, strolling at a slow pace. It took me back to wandering around the Rodin at the museum, that same sense of motion, elongating our time.

There was a fever to our kiss as I thanked her for the evening, before driving her home. My hand found the back of her neck, playing tenderly with the silky strands of her hair, her arms snaked under my jacket and felt as though they were on the skin of my back as she responded. There was exploration in that kiss, of limits, boundaries, intentions and the limitlessness of it astounded me. We were open and sharing of ourselves as we caressed, and at once our bodies moved tight.

I had never thought to hide my arousal, it would have been pointless in that instant. I gave into it, to her and the sensations that threatened to have the thoughts of public fornication themselves banned. There was hunger in our kiss, as our mouths experienced the tastes and intrigue of once another, there was an urgency of our bodies that we tamed, though I could not do so as quickly as I might have liked.

Then there was the embrace that followed and for the second time the word, "wow" was uttered, this time by me.

The drive to her place took less than 10 minutes, but Erryn seemed down as I walked her to her door. She had roommates of course, more than likely several were at home. Lights blazed in the building she occupied, though I had no idea where geographically she lived in the complex.

"How about a drive?" I took her hand and the smile returned instantly. She might have raced me to the car if we had been in a hurry, we certainly were not.

Her hand found my thigh as we began our drive. I was powerless to stop her magic, and like pulling a rabbit from a hat, I began to grow in response. Erryn knew what she was doing to me, she was not only doing it on purpose, but sending me a very non-verbal message. My drive became directed to my place.

I had a loft in the heart of the old industrial district. It was not remote, but also not a quick drive. We wound through the streets of LA, making our way through narrow streets and weather worn buildings. By the time I reached my place, I had been hard for some time. Her gentle grasp and stroking of my thigh had me well prepared.

The stairway to the loft gave me time to relax, I never asked her, she might have refused – I think not, but I did not give her the opportunity. I wondered about that from time to time. It was never a topic we discussed after. I found a bottle of red and opened the windows to the noise of the outside streets. There was a white noise effect about them, and they were far enough away from where we were seated that they did not provide a barrier. It was in fact like dining outside, something we had done often.

She perused the shelves, something you might expect when in the home of a museum director, looked at the photos, most of them my own and settled down next to me.

In this space, a tour was rather passé, I had little in the way of enclosures, except the natural barriers of the walls, the space reminded me of the museum in that way. The exception was the restroom, which was attached to the private living space at the rear.

"The restroom," I directed her in the most official of ways, "My room," I indicated my doorway, "and the living space." The remainder of the loft included in the grand gesture.

We found ourselves quieting as the evening wore on, a glass of red wine each out of the bottle, another poured in the glasses that sat before us, but we seemed less intent on them than on each other. At some point we began to entangle the fingers of our hands, she examining mine, in the greatest of detail, me enjoying the touch and feel of her soft skin as she wrapped in and through the finger of my hand.

In a light hearted moment, as she was looking at my hand, I managed, "It's absolutely true what you have heard about the size of man's hand."

She looked shocked, playing along. "Why, what do they say?"

"Well, it is directly related to the size of a man's - well you know – his feet!" I propped one up on the coffee table, our shoes long gone.

She took my fingers in hers and looked back and forth between one and the other. "I always thought it was related to the size of a man's penis." She passed it off beautifully, and we were both in stitches immediately. The laughter transformed to her against my chest, wound under my arm, our fingers still entwined, and a light kiss that began their first lovemaking together.

I had taken the buttons of her blouse down during a story about how I had gotten the loft and the crazy woman who wanted to decorate it in an African theme, large animals or animal prints here and everywhere. She had removed my shirt while telling me of the fight she had with her older brother about where babies came from at the age of 7. That had ended tragically she said when Santa had also been exposed.

My hands began to move over the sweet pale skin of her back as I searched for the clasps that enclosed her bra, playfully slapping her hands away as she tried to assist. Claiming that if I could not do this on my own, in the dark, upside down in a pool of water, I would have my man card revoked. When i succeeded, I had to draw in my breath and the time for small talk seemed destined for the refuse pile. She was achingly beautiful, her creamy skin, the perfect pout of her nipples as she felt the mixture of arousal and the cool air of the room. I cupped one precious breast in my hands and kissed her mouth, sweet as it was, it urged me on.

Bending to those pink nubs of flesh, enticing me to pay them attention, I did just that, kissing the errant freckle, before sucking on first one engorged nipple, then the other. I scaled them lightly with my teeth, not wanting to bite them yet, gauging her tenderness. The warmth of my mouth did not reduce them, it was as apparent as the hard on in my pants, that she was aroused.

Her hands reached for my belt and I pulled her close enough to pick her up and walk her to my bed. She seemed intent on removing it, perhaps it was her woman card at stake, and I allowed her the opportunity as we stood by the foot of the bed. Kissing my way down her body, I removed her skirt and had my first captivating scent of her sex. It was then that control became an issue as I pulled her panties to the side, lovely pink and black satin, and kissed her shaven pussy fully. The taste was beyond my dreams, as I had dreamed it, so many times.

I took a moment to slip her panties down her thighs and admired those legs yet again. I could feel her hand in my hair, but it paled in comparison to my exploration of her.

I lay her down on the bed and asked the only question I would ask that night. Not permission, just a request, one with which I hoped she would be compelled to comply.

I took hold of her lovely legs and requested, "Would you wrap these around my head?" I heard only a moan in response, the first and most inviting I had heard from her. I bent to her thighs and began to worship her body. Her pussy was warm, wet from my kiss, and from the excitement that had been building throughout the evening. I imagined her needing to masturbate if we had not consummated our relationship. She was not cleanly shaven, a tuft of red lay directly above her wetness, a lovely affirmation of her status as a red head, but that did not matter, her scent filled the room and soon my tongue filled her. Wrapping my hands around her hips I pulled her close, bathing her lips with my tongue, slipping it past them in slow and short strokes, avoiding her clit for as long as I could, the taste of her pulling me deeper. When I found her pearl of flesh, it was standing at attention, ready for me. My fingers stroking her deep while I sucked and pulled at her clit. Her pussy groped at my fingers, wanting them deeper, wanting them faster, her breathing telling me she was close. Her legs clamped against my head, covering my ears. I sucked hard on her lovely pink slit as she gave way to her first orgasm, my mouth was covered in her cum as I surfaced and I thought I heard "wow" again, but I was never sure who had said it.

I was intrigued by the plain white envelope on my desk, it bore only a single letter on the exterior a 'J' in script. Erryn's handwriting was no mystery, but the contents intrigued me, rather than the presence of the note enclosed. There was also the manner in which it would have arrived, the chirping of both the younger set as well at those closer to my age. Erryn had been to the museum often enough before they had begun seeing each other as more than companions, that alone had caused a stir. Now, it was quite evident that there was more between us than some wanted to know or acknowledge within my work realm.

There was a photo, a sticky note carefully placed on the reverse. The photo was printed on standard paper, the warps of excess ink evident. It was the interior cover of a first edition of Moby Dick. On the reverse, in her sweet way, Erryn had penned: