"Happiness belongs to the class of things precious and final"
, Aristotle,
Nicomachean Ethics
I didn't see the first dog coming because he was invisible.
I did see his owner coming. I was by the motel pool, hiding from the sun under a shade structure, and trying to work out how Aristotle might have influenced Jane Austin. It was dry work for such a hot day. So I was ready for a distraction when she came in through the gate to the pool area. I spied on her as she set up camp on the other lounge chair under the shade structure. She had the accoutrements you'd expect: a big bag of sundries, a bottle of sunscreen, a thick paperback, her room key, and one odd item: a faded old pink dog leash, worn from long use, whose loose end was dragging on the ground.
Although, let's face it: as a red-blooded American male, my spying was not focused on the missing dog. I was more interested in what she looked like.
Initially, I was disappointed. She was maybe a dozen years older than I was, probably in her mid-thirties. Her coarse, straight hair was just beyond shoulder length, dark brown with a single gray streak over her right eye. Her tankini showed off a dancer's physique: tight stomach, muscular biceps. However, for all that she was fit, she wasn't attractive. Her skin was sallow and her complexion was rough. Her face was unremarkable. Plus, apparently she didn't shave anything--she had fine black hair on arms and legs and in her armpits. She had no boobs to speak of nor curves anywhere to excite, while her knees and elbows were large. She was somehow both short and gangly at the same time.
Once she was settled, she glanced over and broke the ice: "That's a heavy topic for a hot day. How are the Nicomachean Ethics treating you?"
"Poorly. My assignment is to link them to Jane Austin's
Pride and Prejudice
, so I'm having to bone up on my Aristotle. Where's your dog?"
"I have the perfect dog--you might say his breed is the 'Platonic ideal shepherd'. That is, he is an imaginary dog."
"Imaginary?"
"I'm in town to care for a friend who's, um, ill. One way I help is by walking his imaginary dog. There are many benefits to caring for your friend's imaginary pets. Rover here subsists on a diet of imaginary steak and ice cream; doesn't beg, shed, or pee on the carpets; and never barks at 3 a.m. His tennis ball is never slobbery, and he has low vet bills. Anyway, I'm curious about Jane Austin's link to Aristotle. Tell me more?"
"It says here that Aristotle's core idea was, let's see, um: 'humans must be aware of the ethical choices in a given situation and, based on reason, make choices that would bring about eudaimonia'", I said, stumbling over the Greek, "that is, the highest good."
"Interesting, isn't it?" she said. "Having to make judgements that depend on the situation rather than having the 'bestest good' in a neat little container. I haven't read
Pride
in a while, but it seems to me that there's plenty in there to work with."
"Yeah. I have in a mind to make a decision matrix with each of the characters in specific situations, but... I'm having some trouble motivating myself to do it."
"And who can blame you? It's too hot to tangle with any matrices. I'm Selena, and you are?"
"Cal. I'm summering in 301 while my landlady fixes up the house. Turns out she owns the motel too."
"Then we're neighbors. I've got the corner unit next to yours. 212. If you want to come over some time, I'll let you pet my dog." We both laughed and I went back to Aristotle. After a while she hot-footed across the scorching cement and took up the breast stroke in the pool. I tried not to stare when she made the hazardous crossing in reverse. She wasn't pretty, but scantily clad goes a long way.
She basked in my surreptitious looks. Her eyes had a wicked intelligence behind them and roved across my own body. She laid down on the lounge chair and started applying a new layer of sunscreen. Then she took up her book.
"I think," she said after a while, "that my dog needs to get in out of the sun. When I've dried off, would you like to visit us in our Make Believe kennel, also known as room 212?"
"I'm tempted," I said. "Do you think that would lead to eudaimonia?"
"You ever watch 'Mister Rogers Neighborhood' when you were a kid?"
"I've heard of it. I think it was before my time."
"That's okay. In the show, Mister Rogers would take you on a trolley to the Land of Make Believe. Wherever I go, I try to keep one room or one place that's an adjunct to my own Land of Make Believe--where the rules don't apply and where the mundane doesn't creep in. You know, politics or bad traffic or asshat bosses. None of that."
"I mentioned before that I'm caring for a friend. He's not going to get better: he's in hospice. It's a difficult thing to do, but I've set out to do it. He could die tomorrow, or it might be months from now. So, while I'm here, my room here is an adjunct to the Land of Make Believe because I need a place where I can let go of all that. You know, the rage and anger and sadness inside me from the experience."
"Turns out, Make Believe is more fun if you share it. You can come show off your erudition. Although, to be honest, I'm making this invitation because I want to do something ill-advised. You know, something to make me jealous of all the hot chicks in your life. I want to make a shiny pebble of memory, perhaps it'll be called 'Cal', inside this kind of shitty interlude in my life. Maybe you can make an indelible memory in a box marked 'Selena' to match it."
"Think you can do that?" she asked.
I thought eudaimonia might indeed involve petting her imaginary dog.
Her room, of course, was just like all the other rooms, except that she'd hung a gauzy purple scarf over the window. It made the room dim and vaguely blueberry colored. Her nightstand was piled with books and a couple of empty bottles of water. Her bed was unmade, with the pillows piled up for her to rest against.
She had a capricious smile as she closed the door behind me. With us secreted away, I took her in my arms and kissed her tentatively. We both took little sips of air, then little hints of kiss. I was warming up to her after all.
"Are you in a relationship?" she asked me.
"No," I replied. "Although...er, I have opportunities, but no commitments."
"Okay," she said. "I just don't want to be a home wrecker. I don't think I can stand the karmic hit. I want to be clear that this is a casual thing. But it also kind of means something while we're doing it."
"Aristotle was just reminding me that 'Men are not justified by calling those actions involuntary, which are done by reasons of Anger or Lust'," I said, and I kissed her. She drew off the tankiki top. I pushed my swimsuit off. Her damp bikini bottoms joined them in a pile on the floor as we staggered around blindly trying to back into the bed.
She was a fabulous kisser. Her lips were expressive and moved just so. Her tongue was sweet and mobile. She kissed and then blew into my ear, feeling the surge of reaction tremor through me in response. I nipped at her throat, feeling her nipples tighten in concert. She had no chest to speak of, but brushing those taut bumps made her sit up straighter and suck her breath with a hiss between her teeth.
She maneuvered her way under me, while I rolled above her, supported by my arms. Her hand brushed and then seized my erection, pumping it gently, taking its measure. She passed the tip up and down her entrance, letting me feel the promise of its embrace. But her hand was positioned to keep me from sliding inside.
"Do you want protection? Or are you relying on my birth control?"
"What do you use?"
"In the land of Make Believe? What would be the most ideal?" She let my tip lodge slightly, then drew me out.
"In terms of effectiveness? Or what?"
"Excitement. Don't you want to lie away tonight wondering if you put a joey in my pouch?"
"I'm tempted to say the rhythm method, but I think the diaphragm has it. You have to put it in. It could be taken out or dislodged. We might forget it in a moment of weakness."
"Mmm. You have this Make Believe thing down, I do believe. Therefore, today we're forgetting to put my diaphragm in. Be careful, Cal, one squirt could make you a daddy." These last words each went with a firm shake of my cock... shakes of warning, but each one aligning me better and better with the slippery slope that ended inside her.
Her inner muscles were pumping the inch or so she'd managed to swallow up, pushing me back towards slipping out before relaxing to invite me deeper. Her heels seemed to be slowly levitating from the bed.
I tried to play at being coy. I pulled out almost completely, but when I made to taunt her with a little poke, I found myself sinking in, sheathed in her velvety warmth. I let her absorb the length of me, flexing my back so the firmness of my gristle pressed upward in her belly. She put one hand around the girth of me, letting her thumb diddle herself while her forefinger was tight around the thick stalk's base.
She was too short to kiss while I was buried to the hilt, so I watched her hazel eyes lose their focus, the march of passion across her features. I focused on that passion, my left thumb brushing her nipple in time with my steady sequence of strokes. Her breath grew ragged as she mewled happily, until, at some point, she required more.
