I saw Stacy for the first time at an open art exhibition held within the student center at our local university. The event was an opportunity for the public - as well as interested artists and gallery owners - to see some of the artwork generated by many of the students on campus. The event was well-advertised locally and since I lived within easy walking distance of the campus, it was a simple decision to attend. At the event, my eyes locked onto Stacy's artwork right away. Her paintings exuded ominous overtones, much of it accomplished through the darkening of colors naturally present within the scene. I made a point to meet her.
"I absolutely love your work," I told Stacy honestly when I found her. I held out my hand. "My name is Jim."
"Thanks," Stacy replied off-handedly, as if meeting and greeting the public were a barely endurable chore.
I discussed her imaginative use of color, which piqued her interest. I had no particular expertise in the style of art she was using, but I had taken an art class or two many years ago and I recalled just enough to lend credibility to the things I was saying. We discussed her art for some time that evening, and eventually I asked her to dinner.
"Aren't you a little old for me?" she queried.
"Maybe. Don't worry, I'm a decent guy," I offered, trying to comfort her. She had a point. At thirty-three, maybe I should be a bit beyond the college scene. "You're right, I am probably too old for you, but that doesn't mean we can't be friends."
The truth was, I was drawn to Stacy from the moment I saw her. She was certainly not a traditional beauty, but she had spark, a personality and a fascinating dark side. Though certainly not goth, she leaned toward dark clothing and makeup, had her ears pierced in several places and, through our conversation, I discerned that she had a tongue piercing as well. She said yes to me, perhaps out of some morbid curiosity, but I was thrilled.
"We must look odd," Stacy told me later at the restaurant. "A poor creepy art student on a date with Mr. All-American Boy."
I almost choked on my soda.
"All-American Boy, huh?"
"No offense, but you look like you've had an easy life. You're successful and clean. You should be in a fucking after-shave commercial."
"Life hasn't been easy, sweetie. How about you?"
"My life?" Stacy snorted. "My life has been a travelogue of dysfunction, sir."
"Sir?"
"You look like a sir."
"I haven't been knighted."
"I bet it's only a matter of time."
Through our conversations on that and subsequent nights, I learned that Stacy had grown up under difficult circumstances. Her parents were poor, alcoholic and abusive. Her brother was constantly in trouble with the law. There was more, but she would only reveal so much. I was certainly okay with that. She had a tough life and I did not want to intrude where I didn't belong.
Stacy and I became unlikely friends. I owned a condominium near the campus, which became a convenient place for her to "hang out" on occasion, especially when she wanted to remove herself from college life for just a few hours. As a thirty-three year old professional male, I imagined that it must look strange to have a twenty-year old rebellious college student at my place so often, but I didn't care. Stacy was a shining light and I was glad to have her around.
"Sometimes, the whole damn artsy-upscale-college thing wears me out," she told me on more than one occasion. "If it's not professors trying to make your work look more commercial, its everyone else who is there just to smoke pot and fuck."
"Yeah, college was a trip," I recalled.
"Sometimes, I think its great. Other times, I want to run away..."
"You're always welcome here," I told her.
"Why haven't you tried to make a move on me?"
"I'm too old, remember?"
Stacy laughed. "Seriously, though, why not? Age sure the fuck doesn't stop any of my professors."
It was my turn to laugh, but my laughter was premature -- she was dead serious.
"Is that legal?"
"Hell if I know," she shrugged. "I always turn them down. I tell them I'm a lesbo."
"That's probably wise..."
"You avoided my question. Why haven't you made a move on me?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe I just don't want to take advantage..."
"Take advantage..." Stacy sighed. "I thought that was pretty much what sex was about. Taking advantage of people."
"And I thought it was just the opposite."
"Okay, what is it then?"
"God, I don't know. I guess sex is supposed to be about learning what makes each other tick. You know, trying to please your partner."
Stacy and I continued this conversation, which made me horny. I managed to hide it that night, but several days later I couldn't hide it any more. Stacy was telling me about some guy she agreed to date, how they went back to his apartment and started kissing and fondling, but when things progressed toward sex, she left.
"I wasn't scared, but it was going to be the same old thing. Guys just say whatever the hell they want, then once they get into your pants all of their flowery words just dry up and they want the fuck. What a waste of time."
"College guys are immature. I was too, I guess."
Stacy started pacing, wringing her hands.
"Do you know what 'friends with benefits' means?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Have you ever done anything like that?"
"No, not really."
"Would...you...ever, you know, think of something like that? With me?"
Her words set wheels in motion. I told her I would consider it, but wanted to learn more about her first. Again, the truth was that I would love to have her as a sex buddy, but patience was demanded. I cared about her quite a bit, and I wanted to make sure that whatever happened between us, it wouldn't be yet another damaging event in her life. We talked frequently the next few days, meeting one night at a local bar for dinner.
"Maybe you don't want me after all," she stated bluntly. "I'm pretty much damaged. I'm a fucking freak."
"You're not damaged, Stacy."
"My childhood was bad, I have issues with things...bad things..."
"I know, sweetheart."
Stacy looked up and eyed me suspiciously. The word sweetheart caught her off-guard and struck a nerve somewhere, but she didn't respond verbally. She ate a French fry and considered my words. I sensed that my stalling tactic was being misinterpreted as rejection, which was far from the truth.
"Let's go to my place, okay?" I asked.
"Really?"
"Okay, yeah, Let's try the friends-with-benefits thing, okay?"
We left the bar and walked back to my condominium. At one intersection, waiting for the walk light, I turned her around and gently kissed her. When the light turned, I held her hand. Stacy smiled delicately, then bounced along at my side as we made our way across the street. We walked silently, hand-in-hand, as we made our way back to my condo.
