I was in my early 40s, divorced and living alone, when I got a call from a long-lost girlfriend, Amy. She said she was living outside of L.A. with her husband and an adopted child, a teenage girl named Amber, whom she called "a handful." She just wanted to chat. She said she and her husband wanted kids but couldn't conceive. After years of trying, they decided to adopt and ended up rescuing the orphaned Amber a few years ago from a string of foster homes. As it happened, I was scheduled for a three-week business trip to L.A. next month, so Amy invited me to spend the first week at her house to get re-acquainted. Her husband wouldn't mind, she said.
My visit went well, to say the least. I arrived on a Friday night, and everything went fine. Her husband Doug showed no trace of jealousy. We were all grownups, after all. I guess you could even say Amber was a grownup, since she had just turned 18. I don't know about that, but I certainly noticed her short, black dress with low neckline and her prominent Victorian-style necklace. I noticed her black stockings and high boots, also black, with high heels. I noticed her heavy black eye makeup. Long, curved strips of jet-black hair framed but partially hid her delicate face, the ends brushing her chin and reminding me a little of a 1920s flapper, but in the back her hair was short, boyish. Lipstick β the darkest red. She must have been wearing 10 or 12 silver bracelets. I'll just say right now that she took my breath away, but I hid that from everyone.
She didn't talk much. In fact, she was downright rude at times. My attempts to ask her about school were met with sarcasm, which prompted embarrassed looks from Amy and Doug. Overall, dinner went well, though Amber left the table before dessert, up to her room.
When she was gone, Amy and Doug told me they were worried about her. They were hoping to turn her into a polite, wholesome girl at this critical time in her life, but it was an uphill battle. She got good grades, but she was very rebellious, and they worried about whom she was hanging out with. They didn't let her go out much, for fear of the trouble she might get into. After more talk and a few drinks, we all decided to call it a day. On my way down the hall to the guestroom, I passed Amber's door. I thought I heard some urgent moaning. I kept walking.
The next day was unremarkable. I went over some reports for my Monday meetings, and then trailed along with Doug on a trip the hardware store. Apologetically, he explained that he and Amy would be gone for the evening at an obligatory banquet. Would I mind staying home with Amber, he asked. No problem, I replied. When we got home, I helped him replace an old screen door. Amy was out most of the day on errands. Amber, who had been picked up by a look-alike girlfriend, Andrea, soon after breakfast, did not return until late that afternoon.
Amy and Doug shouted their goodbyes to Amber from the bottom of the stairs. Not long after they had pulled out of the driveway, the girl came down those stairs, dressed almost as she had been dressed the night before. But this time she wore a short leather skirt. No stockings tonight. Around her neck was a black velvet choker. She was quite a sight β a tasty one.
She asked what was for dinner, and I said I was just going to make some coleslaw and grill some burgers for us. She turned up her cute little nose, but I got the impression she would have done that no matter what was on the menu.
"I thought a girl your age would have a party to go to," I said. "It's Saturday night.
"Right," she snorted. "Like I'm in the in-crowd or something. Even if someone invites me somewhere, my parents usually don't let me go. They keep me on a short leash."
She left the kitchen then. I saw her turn on the TV in the living room and flop on the sofa.
Over dinner, finally, she started to open up. In response to questions from me, she told me her mom had died of an overdose about a year after her father had left them for parts unknown, never to be heard from again. She said she wasn't very happy now, but admitted her life was a lot better than in those foster homes, the mention of which made her shiver.
We finished the meal in silence, then rose simultaneously to clear the table. Carrying the dirty dishes to the sink, I felt the need to break the ice, but couldn't think of what to say.
"You know, at home I have a cat named Amber," I blurted out, immediately thinking how dumb that had sounded. By now she was sauntering back to the living room.
"What a coincidence," she said. "I have a pussy by the same name."
Had I heard that right? As I soaped the dishes, I wondered if I were in a dream. She'd had her back to me, I told myself; perhaps she'd said something else. But I knew what she had said. And it excited me.
I zipped through the dishes, as you can imagine. When I joined Amber in the living room, she was on the sofa again, but the TV was off. I picked a chair across the room and met her steady, defiant eyes. Was this some kind of dare? Neither of us wanted to be the first to blink. The stakes were high. After a full minute, I broke the silence:
"I think you're bluffing," I said.
"What do you mean?" she asked coyly.
"I'm betting you're still a virgin."
"Well, maybe I am and maybe I'm not. Is that any of your business?"
"No, I guess not," was my reply.
She left the room. Maybe it's best to back off now, I decided. I knew I was in good shape; I go to the gym almost every day at home. But I'm more than twice her age. What could she see in me?
I moved to sofa and turned on the TV to watch some mindless sitcom. But 20 minutes later, she was back. She sat down on the coffee table right in front of me, and I hit the mute button.
"You know," said Amber, "even if I were a virgin, and I'm not saying I am, that wouldn't be the point. The point is whether I want to be one or not."
I smiled. It was a pretty big smile, actually. I found myself fantasizing like crazy about what the next few hours might hold in store. I wasn't sure what to say. I took a deep breath.
"OK, I'll bite. Do you want to be a virgin?'
"No," she said sharply, looking down at her knees.
Again, I found myself at a loss for words. But I was falling quickly into something I knew I couldn't resist if it went much further. She looked up at me with those dark, seductive eyes β another staring contest?
As it turned out, my hand decided to take the chance before my mind gave it permission. I looked down, and it was on her knee. My hand (and my penis) knew what they wanted. She didn't flinch. She still didn't blink. She smiled. It was an ironic smile, mouth turned upward only at the edges. It was if she knew all along how this would turn out.
I started to smile too. Finally, I began in inch my fingers up her thigh.