Sex Education

Sexy.

Sexy is sometimes hard to describe, but oh so easy to identify.

The '65 Jaguar XK-E rolling to a stop outside the garage door is the sexiest car ever made. Its British Racing Green paint glows in the early October sun.

A sexy woman also defies definition, but she's crystal clear to the beholder.

A tall woman unfolds herself from the Jag and doffs her tweed cap. As she tosses it into the open cockpit, her blond hair cascades around her shoulders. She's wearing tailored tan slacks, a white blouse under a black fleece vest with a burgundy scarf looped around her long neck. Ray-Bans conceal her eyes as she looks around at my building while peeling off her driving gloves and tossing them and the scarf inside the Jag. Turning toward my door, she gracefully moves in my direction.

Sexy.

No doubt about it.

She enters my waiting area.

"Hell-o."

"Morning."

"Are you Mac?"

"Sure am."

"I'm told that you know your way around Jags."

I detect a polished accent--not quite English, maybe Scottish. Not the comical portrayals of a Scottish brogue you often hear. This is more Kate Middleton with a Scottish twist.

"I specialize in British cars. I also have one fellow who takes care of German ones and another who works on the rest, mostly Volvos and Saabs. How can I help you?"

The woman removes her sunglasses, fixes them in the crook of her shirt and looks around the room. I take great pride in my shop. Clean floors, with comfortable chairs, up-to-date magazines and fresh coffee make it unlike most car places.

"Would you mind terribly showing me the work area?"

This is a first. What woman wants to see the bays of the garage?

I nod and lead her through the door into the four-bay garage. The bays reflect the tone set in the waiting area. I and my mechanics all wear white coveralls. The floors are concrete with a high gloss finish. Each mechanic keeps his tools clean and in order. There's no rap music pounding, but rather a steady stream of classical. Today it's Debussy's La mer.

The first bay is mine and is currently empty. Charlie is working on a classic Mercedes 600 in the next bay. He has half the engine laid out on his workbench and is leaning over the soft cloth drape he spread on the fender to reach deep into the motor well.

George is finishing a tune-up on a Volvo in the third bay. In the last one, the only one with a lift, is my latest project. I'm rebuilding the drive train on my Austin-Healey 3000.

"Impressive," the woman says as she walks around the work area. "If your workmanship equals your attention to order, you can help me."

"I like to think we do things right and treat every car as if it were our own. Plus, we know what we're doing. So, what can I do for you?"

"My right front wheel bearing is just about to give up the ghost. I'd like you to tend to that and you probably should turn the rotors on the front brakes while you're at it. And, just give it a general look-around."

I take this in while trying not to show surprise. I never met a woman who knew a wheel bearing from a dog turd, let alone be able to diagnose a problem with it.

"I can do that, but how do you know that's the problem?"

With a cold smile she says, "I drive the bloody thing and have excellent hearing."

"Hey, no offense, Miss. It's just that..."

"That a woman couldn't possibly know anything about cars?"

I nod and smile with more than a tint of guilt.

"Apologies, Miss. Again, no offense. Let's go to the office and see what we can schedule."

I motion her ahead of me. As she walks back to the office, I take in the sensuous motion of her rear in the tailored slacks. Her but--bouncing slightly as she takes long strides--is the stuff of dreams.

It's Saturday morning. We close at noon and don't open until Monday. I bring up the appointment calendar. "How's Tuesday? You'd have to leave it for the day. I can order the bearing then."

"You could order the parts now, unless you're going to confirm my diagnosis." she says with a smile that's a few degrees warmer than her last one.

I sense bullshit is not welcome.

"Actually, I will do my own diagnosis. Not that I doubt you, but I have my own professional standards. And, the supplier is closed on weekends."

"Fair enough. Tuesday it is."

I pull up the order form on the screen.

"Need some info. Name?"

"J. Miriam Collins."

I enter it and ask for address. She gives me one I recognize.

"You're at Barton Hills Academy?"

"Aye. A teacher."

I fill in the address.

"What do you teach? If you don't mind my asking?"

"Not at all. Biology, health and, in my spare time, I'm the volleyball coach. I also proctor one of the residence halls. Keeps me busy and affords me a delightfully cramped suite in one of the dorms."

Nodding, I silently wonder how a teacher could afford a classic Jag. After securing a cell phone number, I enter an estimate for the work, excluding the parts that I would have to price and print a copy.

"If you would just sign to authorize going ahead, Miss Collins, we'll be all set."

"Mim, please," she says as she signs

Bending over to affix her signature, her blond hair falls in two silken waterfalls. Her movement releases a scent of something subtle, but classic. Chanel, perhaps, but not overdone.

Her fingers are long and elegant and bear no rings. She straightens up, catching me staring.

"Something amiss, Mac?"

"No."

"You're staring."

"You're beautiful. I enjoy looking at beauty."

Her cheeks blush.

"Thank you for the compliment."

She is not offended or even put off. Emboldened I stared longer. Her eyes are some sort of green I can't adequately describe. The best I can do is a cross between emerald and aqua. They are deep with dark pupils. Flawless skin shows subtle colorations of pink. She has a widows' peak and simply brushes her thick, blond hair back, tucking it behind her ears.

"Well, I'll see you on Tuesday, then."

"Fine, I can give you a ride back to the Academy if you need it. '

Her eyes lock onto mine. "Yes, I'd like that."

Mim crosses to the Jag, retrieves her Ray-Bans from the crook of her blouse. Her breasts do not appear large, but certainly create an attractive shape in her blouse and vest. Shooting me a quick smile, she smoothly bends herself into the sports car, fixes her cap and scarf and starts the engine. She is the most graceful creature I have ever seen.

I want this woman.

I enjoy the growl of the Jag as she accelerates away.

In two minutes I have my cousin, Samantha, on the phone.

"Hey, Mac, what's shakin'?"

"Just finishing up and hoping to close on time today. Is dinner still on for tomorrow?"

"Yep. Mom is out shopping now. Prime rib, Yorkshire pudding, green beans and some other stuff I am totally freakin' ignorant about. You know me and cooking. Good thing Mom's in charge. I'm just finishing cleaning my place and then I'll head over and lend her a hand."

"Sounds perfect. I'll bring some wine."

"Cool, I'll tell Mom. I like these family things. It'll be good to catch up with you."

"Agreed. Hey, Sam, do you know a Miriam Collins?"

"HRH?"

"What?"

Laughing, she says, "Her Royal Highness."

Sam is the librarian at Barton Hills Academy for Girls. She's 31 and definitely does not fit any stereotype of a school librarian. Her tattoos are discretely hidden under her clothes, except for a tiny Chinese symbol at the nape of her neck, usually covered by her dark hair. She tends to the Goth side, but keeps it in check during her hours in the library, wearing simple but not outrageous black clothes.

But, like me, she loves order. She also enjoys working with the students to help them learn how to do research, both in the library with real books and on-line.

"She's a princess?" I ask.

"No. She just has that bearing. You know how you imagine royalty talk, walk and behave. Very proper and refined. Actually, she's nice, once you get to know her. Very down to earth and extremely funny. You don't see that humor at first and then it just knocks you over. Why are you asking?"

"Oh, she was just in here and wanted me to work on her XK-E. She sure knew about cars."

"Duh!"

"What?"

"Of course she knows about cars. You know who her great uncle is, right?"

"Not a clue, Sam."

"Well, she is Scottish royalty of a sort. Her full name is Jacqueline Miriam Collins. Get it?"

"No, I..."

Then it hits me, Jacqueline or Jacky. Like in Jacky Collins the race car driver and one of my all-time heroes.

"No shit!"

"Yep. I think that's why she goes by her middle name, avoids all the questions. Her grandfather is dead, that's Jacky's brother. Her parents still lives in Scotland, though, and the Collins clan is fairly close. Mim goes back during the summer. She has a lot of racing in her blood. Maybe she'll take you for a ride. She took me. I literally peed my pants I was so scared. Mim never even breathed hard."

"So, how old is she?"

"Whoa, Cuz, are you like on the trail?"

"Just asking her age, Sam."

"Sounds like you might be interested. Don't blame you. If I were a guy, I could see the attraction. Come to think of it, I'm not a guy and I do see the attraction."

That's Sam's little joke about her being gay.

"Is she..."

"Nah, not that I know of. She just seems to keep to herself and her private life stays private. But, I pick up no gay vibes. Although I had my receptors on high alert and I'm sure I was sending out some. No response, sad to say. Anyway, she's just about to turn 29 on Halloween. So, you may be robbing the cradle if you go after her."

"Come on, Sam. I'm only a few years older."

"Almost 7, Mac. That can be a lot."

"Well, I'm just curious. I have no plans to ask her out."

"Bullshit. But she'll probably say no. I know that at least a dozen guys have tried and all left in flames. And, you can thank me for the referral to your grease pit."

"Thanks, Sam, and it's not a..."

"...grease pit. Yeah, I know. Just yanking your chain, Cuz. See you tomorrow."

I hang up and let the images of Mim play in my mind as I finish up work for the weekend. Beautiful and a challenge. It just keeps getting more interesting.

My dinner with my aunt and cousin is enjoyable, although I can't drag much out of Sam about Mim.

The only tidbit I get was that maybe the blond wanted me to assist her in class in addition to dealing with her car.

I push Sam, but she just smiles and says no more.

As Tuesday nears I anticipate seeing Mim. Promptly at 8:00 am, the green Jag rolls in. The top is still down. Mim, with cap and Ray-Bans in place, waves toward me. I trot out.

"Morning, Mac," she calls out.

"Morning to you. All set?"

"Right, hop in."

Climbing in the left side, I fix my seat belt and Mim slips the Jag into first gear. It takes me a few moments to adjust to sitting on the left without a steering wheel. Smoothly she accelerates out of my parking lot. Immediately I know she's a driver. All her movements are effortless as she travels the road toward the Academy. The numerous curves are subdued under her sure hand. Her shifts are clean and quick. I also appreciate the view of her thighs, exposed as her short skirt rides up.

Even as she slides the rear end out on a sharp bend, she never loses one inch of control. I enjoy the ride and watching her concentration behind the wheel. By now her skirt is bunched at the top of her thighs, which are toned and smooth.

I hear the telltale sound of a wheel bearing going bad and silently agree with her diagnosis.

Mim pulls up in front of the former mansion that serves as the administration building. She leaves the engine running and climbs out.

"Call me," she says. With a wave she turns and disappears into the stone entrance.

Getting out to move behind the right side, I stare at her rear as it moves seductively under the soft material of her skirt. The subtle shifts underneath the fabric serve to strengthen my resolve to ask her out.

Back at the shop, I pull the wheel and confirm what both of us suspected. I order the parts, hearing that it would take two days, maybe longer, for them to arrive. I work on the brakes and do a general inspection of the Jag, finding a couple worn belts and a few odds and ends.

I call Mim that afternoon and give her the update.

"Well, that presents a bit of a snuffle."

I'm not sure what that is but figure the delay is a problem.

"Sorry, the parts are coming from Kansas City via Phoenix or even England and I can't get them sooner. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Oh, it's just I have to give a little talk in Fairfield tomorrow afternoon. My Rover is garaged at a friend's house on the coast. I'll see if I can borrow a car here or call and reschedule."

"I could give you a lift," I offer.

"I couldn't ask you to do that."

"You aren't," I volunteer. "I feel badly that your car is tied up."

"Well, all right. But, only if you let me buy you supper afterwards."

"Deal," I agree. "What time is your appointment?"

"Four pm."

"I should pick you up no later than three. I figure we can cover the distance in no more than 45 minutes."

"Sounds great. Pick me up where you dropped me off?"

"Fine."

I opt to use my 1973 BMW 2002ti. As I pull into the grounds of Barton Hills, my pulse increases thinking of spending time with Mim.

That pulse doubles as I see her walking down the steps of the admin building. She's wearing tight skinny jeans tucked into calf-high brown boots. Her long legs are only overshadowed by the tight shape of her butt. On top she has a cream colored turtle neck, tucked into the jeans, revealing a long upper torso with a flat tummy and pleasantly round breasts. Her hair is fixed on top of her head with two amber colored sticks. She carries a large leather bag over her shoulder. The term casual elegance seems to be coined just for her.

Putting the bag in the back seat she climbs in next to me.

"Love the car, Mac. BMW has the best white. How long have you had it?"

I start off, "Five years. It's one of my first restorations. I've sold most of them, but I am emotionally attached to this baby."

"Can see why. It's classic."

We drive in silence for a while. I ask Mim about her talk. She says it's for other volleyball coaches and entails discussing some rule changes and league realignment. Mim is the current president of the volleyball coaches association.

We chat some more and then Mim says, "So, I hear you've been checking up on me."

I try to hold the wheel steady, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, laddie, that your sweet cousin, Sam, likes to chat."

"Shit," I think. So, with nothing to lose, I say, "I admit to asking about you. Not often I meet a woman who knows so much about cars."

"Ah, that was your only interest?"

Is she flirting?

"Let's say, I find all of you interesting."

She lets that hang for a moment. "Good, I rather be found interesting than boring."

I smile and she grins.

"I did a spot of fishing myself," she says looking straight ahead.

"Catch anything?" I chance a glance at her. She still looks ahead, but I delight in her profile and the sweet outline of her breasts under the soft turtleneck. There are slight marks where her nipples push against the material.

"Well, you probably know Sam would not make a successful captive. She spills info like an over-flowing loch."

I smile at how accurate she is. Sam's a talker.

"Well, your full name is Angus Bruce MacDougal and you are one month shy of 36. My sources also tell me," she says glancing in my direction and smiling, "that you opened the garage about five years ago. Doing quite smartly, too. Before that, I understand you were a bit of an adventurer. Did a spot of driving on the vintage circuit and appeared to do it quite successfully. And, this part I part I find a bit hard to swallow, you were a Wall Street Tycoon."

I laugh at the description and figure Sam had embellished my past.

"Hardly a tycoon. I worked five years on the Street after I finished my MBA. I seemed to have a knack for M&A, I mean mergers and acquisitions. Was in on a couple really big deals, made some decent coin and woke up one day without a fucking clue about life. Excuse my language."

I ease the Bimmer around a slight hairpin, downshift, hit the gas, slap the tail in line and head straight down the narrow country road.

"No, problem. Heard the word before, might even have used it on occasion. So, what does a fucking clueless wunderkind do?"

Laughing, I continued. "Cashes out and looks for adventure. You know a trek for the meaning of life."

"Often a journey without a conclusion," she says.

"Yeah, but the trip can be a real kick."

"So is that when you got into racing?"

"More or less. I always liked cars. Now I had time and money. I did a couple driving schools, bought a car and had at it. I did Ok. Won a few at the Glen. But, right now I just dabble a bit."

"Still have the Lotus?"

"Impressed, you really did your homework."

"Don't be, between Sam and the internet, all is known."

I laugh, "Hell, I hope not all."

She lays a hand on my arm, "Enough to be interesting, Mac."

"Like..."

"Like the part of the year you spent with that tribe in the Amazon. I read on-line the piece you did for Nat Geo. Well done, I must say. And, you went totally native?"

"The only way I could really get them to relate to me. Of course the language and my white skin were barriers at first. I had a translator, but worked hard to pick up enough of the tongue to get by. As for the skin, I tanned up pretty good, especially since all you wear is a piece of cord around your waist and a sheath on your penis."

Mim laughs. "So, that was you in the picture? Hard to tell with that beard and long hair. Plus you looked quite skinny."

I chuckle, "Afraid so. In all my glory. Thankfully, the sheath covered most of me and a judicious placement of the spear helped to hide the rest. As far as skinny, you eat what the tribe eats, which most times is roots and bugs."

"Good show, anyway," Mim says. Then, she adds with a hint of humor, "Pity about the spear's placement, though.

"What I take away, Mac, is that you had a strong sense of adventure. I wonder if you still do?"

I sense she's steering the conversation. "To a certain degree," I reply. "I mean I do have a business, a house and don't walk around naked."

"Well, things can change," she says smiling. "Perhaps over dinner, we can do some exploring."

I'm about to ask her what she means when she points out the turnout for our destination. I downshift and pull onto the side road. We soon approach the gate to Cameron School for Boys. She directs me to the field house.

"You can come in, but I fear you would die of boredom. I will only be an hour or so. Feel free to wander the grounds."

I nod to the back seat and say, "I brought some reading. I'll just wait here. Don't worry about time."

"Brilliant," she says flashing her wide smile. "I promise an excellent meal and, well, let's leave the rest 'til then."

She climbs out taking her bag with her. I study her rear in the jeans as it bounces toward the entrance to the field house. Brilliant, indeed, I think.

In a little over an hour, Mim and a half-dozen others exit. They're talking and then with a mix of handshakes and hugs disperse. Mim climbs in.

"Good meeting?"

"Practically an oxymoron," she says smirking. "'Good' and 'meeting' do not naturally belong together. But, it's is over and we are all properly educated on the fine points of the new guidelines to interscholastic volleyball. Now, I need a large single malt."

"Sounds good, where to?"

"Back to the main road and go about two more miles past where we turned in. There's a small inn that caters to the parents of the darling boys of Cameron. They surprisingly have an excellent kitchen and a decent choice of Scotch."