Him to Her

Periodically, someone will read one or more of my stories and contact me with a new story idea. Most often, the ideas they share with me are very brief and with little detail. They want me to build a story around their general idea. I have plenty of my own ideas. That's the easy part. The difficult part is developing a story around the idea, so I have always declined to dive into writing someone else's idea.

A few weeks ago, however, I was contacted by a young lady. In her email to me, she avoided giving any hints as to what her story idea entailed. Quite the contrary, she said only that she would like me to hear "her story", and consider writing it. After verifying with her that it was indeed "her story", I asked her to give me a brief overview.

When I received her response, I was blown away. I didn't believe a word of it, but my curiosity was definitely piqued. I was also blown away by her offer to visit me and share her story face to face.

Now, as a single woman, I'm always skeptical of people from the internet who want to meet me in person. I had been working out of state for months, but I did plan on being home over the holidays, so I told her I would meet with her IF she checked in to the hotel I specified (one that I knew well and knew I would be safe there), and IF she would meet me in the hotel bar in the middle of the afternoon, and IF she would come alone. I was impressed when she readily agreed, even though it would be over a five hour drive for her.

* * *

I got to the hotel bar early, said hi to Darren, the bartender and a long time friend. And then I told him I was meeting a stranger from the internet there in a few minutes and I asked him to keep an eye on me. The gallant gentleman he is, he assured me that no ill would come to me with him on watch.

When Dallas Nash entered the bar, I was immediately intimidated by her. She was drop-dead gorgeous, but what she had was much more than that. She had a raw sexual presence that emanated from her and filled the whole room. She was dressed fairly conservatively, but she couldn't hide what she was. She was the sexiest person I'd ever met. It was more than her looks though. It was her bright eyes, infectious smile, her natural openness, and her overwhelming confidence.

After the introductions and ordering a drink, she looked me straight on and asked me, "So, how much of my last email did you believe, none, right?"

"Did you expect me to believe it?" I asked her.

"No, but if you didn't believe it, why are we here?"

I sat back in the booth and considered her question. Finally, I told her, "I'm not sure. I guess I'm just curious. Is it important to you that I believe it?"

She showed me a smile, "Yes. That's very, very important to me. So, what's it going to take to open your mind enough to at least consider that I'm telling you the truth?"

I remembered the name she had mentioned in her last email, so after thinking for a few seconds, I reached in my purse and took out a pen and paper. I wrote three questions, "1. What was Neil Austin's date of birth?" "2. What was his place of birth?" and "3. What was his Social Security Number?"

I fully expected her to make some excuse why she'd have to get back to me with the answers, but that didn't happen. Dallas read the questions and let out a chuckle, but then she shocked me by immediately scribbling down the answers to all three questions. When she slid the paper across the table to me, I drained the rest of my drink and slid out of the booth. Looking down at her, I asked, "What is your room number."

When she gave it to me, I said simply, "I'll call you in the morning." And then I waved at Darren and strode out of the bar.

* * *

I was up until three a.m. researching Neil Austin on the internet. Before I was finished, I felt that I knew him better than I knew members of my own family. On note cards, I wrote down three more questions. I knew there was a possibility that Dallas may have done the same research, so I chose questions that were so obscure; I was sure she would never have committed those details to memory.

I slept in the next morning, and then I called the hotel and got them to put me through to Dallas' room. "I'll be in the hotel bar at eleven."

* * *

When I slid the first note card across the table to Dallas, she chuckled again, "I love tests" The card read, "Where was Neil Austin when JFK was assassinated?" She wrote her answer and immediately slid it back across the table to me. Her answer was "In his fourth grade class at Nashville Elementary."

I slid the second card across the table. The question read, "What was his fourth grade teacher's name?" She didn't hesitate in writing down, "Mrs. Forbes".

Finally, I slid the third card across the table to her, "How many siblings did Neil Austin's mother have?"

Again, Dallas didn't hesitate. "She was the youngest of thirteen children."

Now it was time to throw her a curve ball—a question that couldn't be obtained by researching Neil Austin on the internet. Neil's major in college was the same as mine; Psychology. If she was telling the truth, she should be able to answer a simple question on that topic, so I ask her, "How would you explain Freud's 'Id' to a novice?"

Dallas tilted her head back and laughed out loud. When she composed herself, she looked me straight in the eyes and said, "That's a good one, even if not very difficult. I'm impressed."

I tilted my head in challenge, "Then answer the question."

She raised her eyebrows, grinned, and began, "Freud believed every person has three internal influences, the 'Id', the 'ego', and the 'super ego'. The 'ego' is the individual themselves—the one in the middle. The 'super ego' is the 'internalized parent'. The 'Id' is the baby within us-the infant. An infant wants what they want, when they want it. They have no sense of right and wrong. With the 'Id' sitting on one shoulder, constantly whispering in one ear, 'I want that' or 'I want to do this', and the 'super ego' sitting on the other shoulder and whispering into the other ear, 'no, that is bad' and 'no you can't do that' and 'you'll go to hell if you do that', it's up to the 'ego' sitting in the middle to satisfy them both enough to maintain a proper balance. Freud believed that mental health was determined by the 'ego's' ability to keep both of them happy while never letting either one of them have too much influence."

Wow! I was blown away, and I was convinced that Dallas Nash was for real.

I asked her, "Do you have GPS?"

When she said she did, I wrote my address on another card and gave it to her, "I'll expect you at two p.m."

During the short drive home, I had to keep mentally pinching myself. I couldn't believe what was happening, and I wasn't at all sure how I should feel about it. I was way out of my element.

* * *

I didn't know what to expect when Dallas entered my home, but I surely didn't foresee her beginning to strip off her clothes even before the door closed behind her. When she saw me staring and the look on my face, she defended, "What? You're a nudist and I'm a nudist. You do host nudist friends over here, don't you?"

She was right, of course, but she wasn't a friend. She was almost a total stranger. And then she doubled down, "I know you drink Jack and Coke. I'll take one too. I'll be waiting in the hot tub."

As she went out the back door, my brain was whirling. Was there any mention of my preferred drink in my story, "A Tale Of Two Visits", which was my personal story? Or could she have learned that by other means? Both times I met her in the hotel bar, I'd ordered plain Coke. At any rate, I felt totally disadvantaged by her intimate knowledge of me.

I decided to play along enough to get those answers. I stripped, made us each a drink, and headed out to the hot tub. "How did you know?" I asked her while handing her a glass and climbing into the hot tub.

I was shocked when she responded, "I've been chatting with you for months in the nudist room of Lit chat . . . under several different names . . . both male and female."

"I don't distinguish or change because of the gender of the person I'm chatting with. I am who I am." I defended.

"I know." She said, raising her glass in toast.

"What names did you use?"

"None that you'd remember, a different one every time."

And then the most important question came to me, "Why me? I write to post stories on Lit. Your story, assuming I'm willing to believe it, is one that deserves a more traditional mainstream venue."

That caused Dallas to laugh out loud, and then she agreed, "You're right, of course, but I read your book, and I found it to be brilliantly written. That told me that you are familiar with the editing and publishing process, so I'm comfortable that you'll know how to get this done. Also, after reading your Lit stories, I'm sure you'll know how to deal with the more . . . sexual aspects of my story."

My jaw fell open. "I published that book under another name. How did you know I wrote it?"

Neil was a big fan of a particular author on Lit who just happens to be a close friend and big fan of yours. He told Neil about your book."

"And you know everything Neil knows—knew."

She lifted her glass again, "Touché"

* * *

I sensed that Dallas was in no hurry to get down to telling me her story in earnest, so I came right out and asked her, "We're not going to get into your story today, are we?"

She smiled, "No, I would prefer we get comfortable with each other first."

"We're naked in my hot tub. How much more comfortable can we get?"

Dallas laughed out loud, and then she crawled out of the hot tub and dove immediately into my pool. When she returned to the hot tub with her long dark hair wet and clinging to her face and shoulders, she showed me another smile, "May I have another drink?"

* * *

When I returned to the hot tub with two fresh drinks in hand, I asked my guest, "So, what else do you know about me that you didn't learn from reading my profile?"

My question seemed to amuse her, "I know that, unlike me, you're more of a nudist than an exhibitionist, and I know that you're not really a swinger, even though you are a member of a swinger's site."

"So you're more of an exhibitionist?"

Dallas stood up in the hot tub and did a slow pirouette, "Wouldn't you be?"

I mimicked her earlier response, "Touché". She was, after all, the sexiest person I'd ever met, and not just by virtue of her incredible body. She obviously had tremendous fun being her. It wasn't that I didn't have decent looks and body, I did, but she was on a whole different level. "How old are you?"

Dallas tilted her head back and laughed loudly into the air. When she'd composed herself somewhat, she looked me in the eyes and said with a grin, "You'll learn all of that later. Trust me; I won't leave until all of your questions are answered."

"You are welcome to check out of the hotel and stay here, if you want."

Her response shocked me, "I already checked out. My bags are in the car."

* * *

NEIL AUSTIN

I slept until almost ten the next morning and spent the next hour doing my normal work related duties on the computer. Dallas was up and swimming laps in my pool. I stood at the windows, sipping my coffee and watching her. She was quite a sight. I was in awe at how sexy she was—every move, every stroke of her arms through the water—every turn and kick. She was absolutely the essence of sexuality.

When she exited the pool, dried herself, and came inside, I felt no need to pretend that I hadn't been watching her. She was, after all, a self-professed exhibitionist.

"I smell coffee."

"Help yourself. There is sugar and Splenda, whichever you prefer."

"I prefer real sugar." She told me. "I don't have to worry about gaining weight."

"No, why?"

"In due time." She said with a chuckle. "We need to talk about other things first."

I sat in my recliner and lit a cigarette. Dallas stretched out on the leather sofa on the soft fleece throw and did the same. "We need to talk about Neil first. Do you need to get a notepad?"

I reached into the end table and pulled out my small tape recorder. I put in a blank tape and then walked over, put it on the coffee table in front of Dallas and pushed the 'record' button.

When I returned to my recliner, Dallas began: "Okay, well . . . Neil was a nice guy. He was fifty eight, in reasonably good health, but in the years after his wife died—no, check that, even years before that, he was totally bored. He was a very sexual person, but he kept that part of himself suppressed. When she died though, his brain went into overdrive. He was a plain man, in a plain job, living a plain life. He longed for excitement."

"What kind of excitement?"

"He was more like you than you can know. He, like you, had a degree in Psychology, of course, you already knew that. He was a people watcher. He came to live vicariously through the people he came into contact with—especially the young sexy women. He dreamed about being one of them. His last thoughts before going to sleep every night were how awesome it would be to experience the life they lived day to day. He even prayed to die and come back as one of them."

"Is that what happened?"

Dallas laughed, "You're getting ahead of me."

"Then catch me up."

"Okay, on July 11th, 2010, Neil suffered a heart attack. He died in the hospital later that day."

"So, is that the day you were born?"

DALLAS NASH

(in her own words)

Born? I wasn't 'Born', at least not in the way you think of one being 'Born'. I came into being on that day. My earliest memory is of sitting on a bench in front of the hospital that day. I was wearing tight pink shorts and a clinging white halter. That's it—no underwear, no shoes, and no money. I had no purse, no ID, and no name. What's worse, I had no plan.

Starting from nothing like that, even for someone who looks like me, is more difficult than most people would think. There was a park a block down the street, so I went there to assess the situation and formulate a plan. My fear was that anyone hearing my situation might call the police. I was deathly afraid of winding up in a mental hospital.

My first order of business was to come up with a name. If Neil had ever had a daughter, he would have named her Dallas. He had an affinity for that name, so it was only natural that I chose it for mine, and I was in Nashville, so I chose Nash as my last name.

I knew I needed help. There was only so much I could do on my own, and I needed that help to come from someone who wouldn't ask too many questions. I knew where to go for that. I just had to find a way to get there.

At the time of his death, Neil was a recovering alcoholic with twelve years sober. Over those years, he had become close personal friends with many of the other members of the AA group he attended. And since there are few secrets among AA members, he knew more about them than people can learn about each other in any other setting. The problem was, Neil's AA group was several miles from where I was—much too far for me to walk barefooted.

I found an older man in the park who was talking on his cell phone. I sat on the other end of his bench and waited for him to finish his conversation. When he did, I told him I was in trouble and needed help. He called directory assistance and asked for the number of the AA group I was looking for. He called that number and handed me his phone. Unfortunately, no one answered because it was between meetings. So that very sweet old man offered to drive me there, and he did. I'm angry with myself for not getting his name and telephone number so I can thank him properly. I've been back to that park many times looking for him, but without success.

* * *

I was sitting on the curb outside the AA group when Danny M arrived. Fortunately, he was a trusted member of the group, so he had a key. He was also a very good friend of Neil's. "You look like you're lost."

I showed him a frown, "You have no idea."

"Then you've come to the right place."

Upon entering the building, Danny immediately set about putting on a pot of coffee. He looked over his shoulder and showed me a smile, "There are sodas in the fridge. Make yourself at home."

I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and sat on one of the sofas which were arranged in a large square at one end of the room. When the coffee was brewing, Danny sat on the sofa across from mine, "So, if you don't mind me asking, what brings you here today? Are you an alcoholic?"

I looked him in the eyes, "No, it's not that."

He seemed to believe me, "Okay."

"Neil Austin . . . I know this is where he came. He died today—a heart attack."

Danny looked like he'd just been kicked in the stomach. I gave him a couple of minutes to compose himself before continuing, "He was encouraging me to get out of a very bad relationship, and I did . . . this morning. I ran away. I didn't even take the time to get my purse or shoes. I got to Neil's house just in time to watch them load him into the ambulance."

Danny cleared his throat and struggled to speak, "What . . . what is your name?"

"You can call me Dallas—not my real name."

He nodded, "I understand."

Several others began arriving. Danny introduced me as Dallas, "A friend of Neil A's," but he didn't mention to them that Neil had died. I suspected that he preferred to wait and tell the whole group at one time.

And then he got up and moved next to me so we could talk without the others hearing, "Anyone can sit in on open meetings, but I'm afraid this meeting is closed. Only alcoholics are invited."

"I can wait outside." I offered.

He shook his head, "C'mon." And he helped me to my feet. I followed him into another room. "This is our Al-Anon room. Their meeting won't start for a couple of hours. You can wait in here. Can I get you anything else?"

Neil was a smoker. I had the urge, even though I didn't know how my lungs would take it. "A smoke . . . could I bum a smoke?"

Danny grinned, "Of course." And then he handed me four cigarettes and his lighter and left, closing the door behind him.

When I lit one of the cigarettes and inhaled, my lungs accepted the intrusion without complaint, and I let out a satisfied sigh.

* * *

When the meeting was over, Danny returned to the Al-Anon room. He gave me another cigarette, and then he handed me a wad of bills, "This is from the members who where here today—just something to help with your immediate needs." And then he added with a chuckle, "Like shoes".

After I thanked him and ask him to thank the others for me, he told me, "I want to introduce you to a couple of our female members. They have a two bedroom apartment, but they only use one of them, if you get my meaning. They've offered to put you up for a while. Will that be a problem for you?"

Neil knew Linda and Lisa. It was no secret they were lesbians. I showed Danny a smile, "No, no problem at all."

* * *

Linda and Lisa were both delightful and very eager to help. By bedtime that night, I had an inexpensive change of clothes, sneakers, some makeup, a minimum of toiletries, and a full belly.

The following day, for the grand sum of fifty dollars, I had a birth certificate. Ernesto, the Hispanic friend of Danny's, explained that the normal cost of the document was two hundred dollars, but Danny had called in a favor and got Ernesto to provide me one at the huge discount. With my new birth certificate in hand, it only took a few days for me to obtain a driver's license, Social Security Card and bank account. Dallas Nash was now a real person.

Now all I needed was an income. I knew full well it would have been easy enough to pick up some quick cash by dancing in a topless club or sitting in the bar of an upscale hotel, but I couldn't see myself going down that path. Don't get me wrong, I knew my looks and body were my only assets, and I wasn't opposed to using those to earn money, but I was afraid, as a novice, I'd probably wind up in police custody. That could end my new life before it even got started. I wanted to start on a higher level.