Delila In The Desert

Part 1 - Contact

I boarded the British Airways flight from London to Tucson and took my rarely experienced seat in First Class. Assistant Professors at state universities rarely travel in luxury, even when invited to present a paper on 20th Century American Literature at Cambridge.

I nodded politely to my seatmate and mumbled "Good evening."

She smiled warmly.. "Good evening."

I stowed my carry-on and folded my 6 foot 6 inch frame into the seat. I semi-listened to the familiar pre-flight catechism delivered in a rich British accent. We reached cruising altitude and the cabin lights were turned low for the benefit of those who wished to sleep away the 9 hour flight from London to Atlanta. Before I could insert my noise-canceling earbuds my seatmate played the classic flight conversation opening gambit. "So, headed out or headed home?"

I sighed briefly but smiled and responded politely "Home .... to Tucson Arizona."

"Oh my goodness!" she replied "Same here! You are SO lucky to live there. I simply adore the scenery in your little corner of the Sonoran Desert." She held out her hand "Rebecca ... Rebecca Birnbaum."

I had gotten a fairly good look at her before the lights went down. She was a fair skinned woman of maybe 50 years. Her Semitic features were framed by black, shoulder length hair that she wore in almost girlish bangs and soft shoulder length waves. Her mouth was generous and she highlighted it with deep red lipstick that framed a bright white smile. Her green eyes sparkled with intelligence and humor. As to her figure, when paired with her fair skin, red lips and black hair she looked for all the world like a Disney princess if painted by Peter Paul Ruebens. She was all soft curves built on an approximately 5 foot 6 inch frame.

"Donald ... Abravanel." I said, and shook her hand.

She smiled brightly and fell into an outrageous accent straight from the shtetl. "Nu? A fellow Jew then? Lovely!"

I chuckled and said "Shalom." Which elicited a delightful contralto laugh from her.

She shifted slightly, turning more fully towards me, and her obviously expensive silk blouse pulled across her ample bosom revealing a starling amount of decolletage.

"So, Donald, I don't suppose you'd mind keeping a fellow Jew company? I can NEVER sleep on these flights."

I turned my own upper body slightly towards her. Her smile was hopeful and I'm a sucker for green eyes, especially intelligent looking ones. "Sure, why not."

"WONDERFUL! So, Donald ... oh, do you mind if I call you Donnie?" I actually hate nicknames and started to respond but she went on. "Lovely! So Donnie, What's a nice Jewish boy like you doing in the desert?"

"I'm an Assistant Professor of literature at the university."

She gasped in obvious delight. "REALLY!?!? How FASCINATING! Tell me absolutely everything!"

She had fully pivoted her body towards me, her legs tucked under her. Her cleavage was on full display, accented by a large butterfly pendant studded with fuchsia colored gemstones nestled here. Her face still had that hopeful expression but now her eyes were inquisitive. So, I told her.

My life had been pretty prosaic. I had taken the standard path to my doctorate, making my way from my native Maryland, obtaining a BA in Literature thanks to a track and field scholarship, and then proceeding to a Masters in 20th and 21st-Century American Literature & Culture and a PhD from NYU where I started my teaching career. An avid cyclist since my track and field days ended, I fell in love with Tucson after participating in the well known 109 mile long El Tour de Tucson. I pursued a position at the university there and six years ago succeeded. I spent my days teaching less than enthusiastic undergraduates while working my way to the much desired tenure.

"And that's pretty much it." I concluded.

She studied me intently and then gave out with this surprising question "What was your doctoral thesis on?"

My eyebrows went up "Oh ... well ... The Works of Bernard Malamud actually."

She wrinkled her nose. "Ewww. I find Malamud self-indulgent." She noticed the brief flash of annoyance on my face. "Oh dear ... I'm sorry Donnie. I can be terribly opinionated at times, and now I've offended you."

I laughed softly. "No, it's fine. A lot of people feel that way about Malamud. I'm curious though, why such a strong opinion? Are you a big reader?"

"Oh my goodness yes! Voracious reader! A minimum of eight books a month when I'm not writing myself!"

Now I was curious. "Oh? You're a writer?"

She nodded but waved her hand dismissively "Terribly dull stuff. You wouldn't be interested. Tell me more about you! Married? Kids?" She had placed her hand on my arm. I glanced down at it but she didn't pull it away, and I don't think I wanted her to.

"Divorced, no kids."

She nodded "Same. Anyone ... special?" She tentatively entered mid-game.

"Not at the moment." I said. "You?"

"Me neither, but you never know!" Her tone was teasing.

Our conversation was interrupted by the meal service.

Our main courses complete, we sipped at our complimentary wine and nibbled from the fruit and cheese plates. "What's taking you to Arizona?" I asked.

She looked around the cabin. "I believe this is an Airbus-330."

I barked a short laugh "Well played madam!"

She bowed her head "Thank you sir! But seriously. I'm staying at a friend's villa at a spa resort there for the next month or so while I work on my next book."

I had a pretty good idea where she was staying. Very exclusive and very expensive. If she had a friend with a villa there, she must have been a writer of some note, or knew one. "Rebecca, seriously, what do you write? Would I have read any of it?"

She gave me a long, assessing look. "Hmmm. Unlikely. And sadly, because of Nondisclosure Agreements I can't talk about what I'm working on. You know how publishers are." This last bit was in a conspiratorial tone, and delivered with a wink and a grin.

By now I had a good sense that I was dealing with someone of note, but her name wasn't familiar. If she wrote under a different name and wanted or needed to be anonymous, I decided to respect that.

She abruptly changed the subject "What's your opinion on Philip Roth?"

For the remaining time of the flight we talked about writers, novels, social trends and their effects on culture, and vice-versa. Rebecca was obviously well read, well educated and was a charming and challenging conversationalist. Even when we disagreed on something, being Jews, we enjoyed the counter play of our opinions.

I felt a pang of regret when they announced that we were beginning our approach to Atlanta. "Rebecca, you're delightful. Thank you for allowing me to keep you company." and I held out my hand to her.

"Why Mister Abravanel. You WILL turn a lady's head." she said in an over-the-top southern belle accent, fanning her face with one hand while pressing the other to her bosom. Then she looked a little serious and asked "How long is your lay-over in Atlanta?"

I glanced at my ticket and my watch. "It's a little tight really. I'm a little worried about making my connection."

She patted my arm and began to arrange herself for landing. "I'm sure it will be fine."

It wasn't. We landed a few minutes early but, of course, there was no gate available for us. By the time we did have a gate my flight had pushed back. "Shit." I muttered as we stood and retrieved our bags, which Rebecca heard.

"Donnie, listen. I'm on a later flight and First Class is almost never full on that one. Why don't you come to the Executive Club with me and we'll get it arranged for you!"

"Rebecca, I'm not a member of the Executive Club. I don't even have a First Class ticket home. The only reason I am sitting with you is that I got a lucky upgrade." I laughed sadly. "I'm an Assistant Professor at a state university. I don't travel the same way you do. I'll just go to the assistance desk and ...."

We had cleared the end of the jetway and gone into the terminal, but Rebecca turned to step in front of me and put up her hand like a traffic cop. "Donnie, if you think you are going to dodge our debate on Upton Sinclair, you have another thing coming mister. Now I absolutely INSIST you let me help you, and I can't do that in the food court over Panda Express."

I scratched my head and laughed "Well, okay." and I got pulled along in her wake to the frosted glass doors of the Executive Club.

The place was quite tony, featuring deep pile carpeting, wood paneling, soft lighting and even softer piano jazz playing. A young handsome African-American man in a suit was behind the low reception desk. He greeted Rebecca in a light, effeminate voice with a Southern lilt "Good morning. May I see your membership card please?"

Rebecca retrieved her card from a slim folio that matched her designer clutch, which also matched the small roll-aboard she had been pulling along. The young man scanned the card, stared at the screen and waited for the beep. It came and he began to hand the card back, smiling at Rebecca saying "Welcome Ms....." and then he did a double take on the screen and his eyes went wide.

"It's pronounced 'BIRNBAUM'". Rebecca's tone was quite pointed.

The young man shook himself slightly to regain his composure. "Of course Ms. .... Birnbaum. I understand completely."

Rebecca nodded to me. "This is my guest Mr. Abravanel. He needs to get home to Tucson today. I would like him on my flight, First Class please and in the seat next to mine." She turned to me "Donnie, give this nice young man your ticket please." Which I did.

As he took the ticket from me he said "Of course Ms. Birnbaum. It will be my pleasure." Not "I'll do my best." or "Well, we'll see what we can do." Just "It will be my pleasure." I was stunned.

Rebecca gave him a smile and said "Lovely dear. We'll stop by on the way out to collect his boarding pass. Donnie, shall we?" and she strode into the club. It took me a second to unroot myself and hurry after her. As I did I heard the receptionist pick up his phone and say in a hushed but excited tone "Daria, yeah it's me. You won't BELIEVE who just came in!"

I caught up with Rebecca just as she was curling up in a soft leather armchair in a secluded corner of the club. She had chosen a spot that was well out of sightlines and she had her back to the main area. I plopped down into the seat across from her.

"Rebecca, who ARE you?"

She sighed "Donnie, right now and with you I am just Rebecca Birbaum. As to who else I might be, you will probably find out eventually. But can I just be Rebecca for a little while longer?" Her eyes were pleading.

"Of course,"I said.

"Thank you dear." She swiveled her head, looking for a server, but one was already hurrying towards us, an eager look on her face.

"What can I bring you ma'am?" the young lady said. Her name tag read Daria, and was clearly who the receptionist had called.

"A white wine spritzer please. What about you Donnie?"

I shook my head "Nothing, thank you."

"Very good ma'am, I'll have that for you immediately." And then she leaned towards Rebecca. She clutched her small tray to her chest and said in a hushed, adoring tone "I'm SUCH a fan!" And then, so help me, she curtsied and hurried off.

Rebecca rolled her eyes before turning to me and smiling. "So ... about Sinclair."

And so, we were just Rebecca and Donnie. Two book lovers sharing our thoughts on the written word. I hadn't had a conversation that long or that enjoyable since graduate school.

I was about to make a very strong point about Steinbeck when Rebecca looked at her watch and said "Oh .... we should start heading to the gate." She uncurled herself and stretched like a cat, raising her arms over her head and stretching her legs out in front of her. She wiggled her toes, her toenails were lacquered the same shade of red as her glossy nails and there was a fuschia tattoo of a butterfly peeking out from the hem of her trousers.

"Do you like my toes Donnie?" Her tone oozed sensuality.

I had been caught staring and I quickly raised my gaze to her face. Her eyes, which up to that point had been wide and earnest, were suddenly hooded and predatory. Her lips were curled in a knowing smile, revealing sharp white teeth. I knew what prey felt like when they saw the big cat stalking them.

"Why Donnie, you're blushing.". She laughed and the big cat was gone. Had I just imagined it? She stood up and walked around the back of my seat, running her fingers along my shoulder. She leaned down and whispered into my ear "It's okay, I like that you like them." We had entered the end game, and we both knew it. I just wished I knew who I was playing.

We boarded the flight to Tucson and the tone of the conversation changed. What had caused our divorces? Were we on good terms with our exes? What were our dreams and aspirations? But somehow she elicited much more information out of me than I got from her. When the plane began its final approach, I still didn't really know who she was.

I found out shortly after we landed.

We cleared the jetway and strolled down the ramped hallway leading to the security perimeter in companionable silence. She was in front of me on the narrow steep elevator that led to baggage claim. Her light powdery perfume wafted up to me and I felt the stirring of a very male response that I hadn't felt in quite a while.

There was a flock of limousine drivers at the bottom, each holding up a handwritten sign or iPad that showed the name of their client. Rebecca stopped and turned to me. She was holding something in her hand, it looked like a business card. She stepped in close to me, took a deep breath and said softly. "Donnie, I'm going to be in town for at least a month. I'd really like to spend time with you while I'm here." She pressed the card into my free hand, folding fingers around it so that the card was hidden. "My number is on the back of that card." Her expression was a combination of hope, fear and resignation. "If you don't call, I'll understand." She turned without another word and strode toward a driver who was in a suit and peaked cap. He held an iPad that flashed "DeLongue".

I turned the card up and looked down at it. It was fuchsia with embossed silver letters that glittered in the terminal lights. It read "Delila DeLongue" and below that "Delila@dderotica.com".

I had just spent the past day with a world famous, New York Times best selling author .... and the reigning empress of erotic romance.

Part 2 - Interlude

I stood in my small office at the university, gazing out onto the lawn that was starting to turn a deeper green as a result of the recent early monsoon showers. I was lost in thought, considering for at least the hundredth time in the last 2 weeks whether or not to call Rebecca, or, as the world knew her, Delila DeLongue.

Once I saw the name on the card everything clicked into place. The money, the influence, the fans. Even the fuchsia butterfly jewelry and tattoo, the colors and designs that appeared on the florid cover of every paperback she sold. And she sold a lot of them. Delila DeLongue paperbacks, and the occasionally released hardback collection, had been flying off of shelves since she burst onto the scene 15 years ago. They had been translated into any number of languages and a couple had even been made into films, although they went directly to streaming.

Young people of both genders wanted the books for their explicit sex scenes to fuel their masturbatory fantasies. For much the same reason they were tucked into the night stands of middle aged women everywhere, especially those in sexually unfulfilling marriages, usually next to a small, discreet "personal massager". And gay men adored the female protagonists, who were either tragic victims of circumstance or plucky adventuresome heroines. They lusted after the hunky love interests and identified with the commonly appearing Mary Sue-esque gay best friend/sidekick.

As far as I was concerned Delila DeLongue novels, if you could use that word, were filled with formulaic paper thin stories that were solely there as clunky plot vehicles for overwrought pornography. And they sold like hotcakes. As to Delila DeLongue herself, she was nothing more than a hyped up, porn peddling hack..

However, Rebecca Birnbaum was a fascinating, erudite, witty woman with enough charm and sensuality for any man. Which one would I be calling?

"Which one should I call?" said a voice behind me, startling me out of my reverie.

"Uhm, what?" I said, turning around.

It was Arnold, my graduate assistant, who at the moment had a concerned look on his bespectacled face. "Sir, are you alright? You seem a little distracted today."

"Yes, yes I'm fine. Just a lot on my mind. Now, what were we discussing?"

Arnold coughed his dry little nervous cough into his fist, a tic he had which annoyed me to no end. He gestured to a collection of menus strewn across my desk. "Which restaurant sir? For the end of term social." I was on the department's social committee and had been given this assignment.

I sighed "Arnold, I trust you with this decision. Just .... pick the one that seems best to you."

Arnold, looking annoyed, pushed menus into a stack then taped them square. "Fine." he said curtly. "Will there be anything else today?"

"No, thank you Arnold. I ...think I'll just catch up on some paperwork. See you tomorrow."

"But what about ...." Arnold began.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait. Now if you'll excuse me." Arnold's back stiffened and he tucked the menus under his arm. He said archly "Certainly." He turned on his heel and left, muttering something. "Shit". I said to myself. I actually liked Arnold and depended on him quite a bit. I would have to make it up to him.

I had been like this for two weeks, ever since meeting Rebecca. I replayed our conversations over and over and spun out fantasies about new ones we could have. I imagined her face, her curves, her ample cleavage, and ....yes ...her toes. I either had to take some sort of action or just forget the whole damn thing.

I took action.

Part 3 - Stranger in a Strange Land

"Donnie dearest!" she exclaimed when I called. I could hear other voices, the sound of laughter and the splashing of water in the background.

"Have I called at a bad time?"

"No, no, just a moment! Let me go inside." The background noise receded and I heard the sound of a sliding door and the swish of curtains. "Now, much better." She sounded like she was in a room with a lot of soft surfaces. I had to shake off the fantasy of her in a bedroom as she continued. "I'm so glad you called. I was starting to wonder if ... you know ... once you learned who I was ...."

"No, no. It's end of term you know. Very busy time."

"Poor Chips" she said in a sad tone. We had discovered a mutual love of the book Goodbye Mr. Chips, and its 1939 film version, in our conversations. "But hopefully you aren't too busy this weekend. I'm having some friends over, just a casual dinner and drinks thing, on Saturday. Oh PLEASE say you'll come!"

"Well, I ...."

"MARVELOUS! Wear something cool and loose. I'll text you the address. Just show my card at the gate. See you at 9 on Saturday!" She sounded absolutely giddy. I heard a muffled thud, the curtains swish again and the slider being thrown open. Apparently she had forgotten to hang up. I heard her receding voice "What a WONDERFUL day this turned out to be!"

Three days later, the sound of cicadas flooded into my car as I rolled down the window and pulled up to the guard shack. An armed and uniformed man, whose whole look and demeanor screamed off-duty cop, approached, leaned down to peer at me and said "Can I help you sir?"

I handed him Delila's card "Yes, I believe I'm expected."